


The Owl and the Dragonfly

by squiderella



Series: Tooth and Talon [2]
Category: Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, content warning for roger being himself, the evil version of squire, two stoic jocks who like math
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 153,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25055740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squiderella/pseuds/squiderella
Summary: While growing up during the reign of an unjust king, Keladry of Mindelan continues her page training, becomes a squire, and attempts to fight injustice.
Relationships: Alexander of Tirragen/Thom of Trebond, past Roger of Conté/Thom of Trebond
Series: Tooth and Talon [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807024
Comments: 356
Kudos: 107





	1. The Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a sequel to _A Wolf at the Door_ , and picks up a couple months after the end of that story. Unlike _A Wolf at the Door_ , which turned out to be an ensemble story, this one is more narrowly focused on Kel and her adventures, as well as, to a lesser extent, on the shady mentor figures she acquires along the way.
> 
> Alanna and Daine are fine; they are just elsewhere.
> 
> Some dialogue was borrowed from _Page_.

**454 H.E.**

There was nothing she could do except start climbing. Slowly, one foot after the other, her eyes fixed on the place where the stairs met the wall, Keladry of Mindelan made her way up Balor’s Needle.

She was fairly certain that Sir Gareth hadn’t known who she was exactly, when he had stopped her some ten minutes earlier. He had only seen her page’s uniform. She, however, had recognized the harried-looking man by both his name and station: he was the heir to Fief Naxen, and one of the king’s many low-level administrators, in charge of collecting taxes from the Lake Region. She had seen him hurrying to meetings of the nobles’ congress earlier that year, just before the pages had left for their summer camp in Hill Country.

What carried her up the steep, winding staircase was the knowledge that the message she carried was for the king. When she finally reached the platform at the top of the stairs, she found him standing there alone, gazing out over the Royal Forest.

He turned, as though he’d heard her arrive. “Yes?”

When she straightened from her bow, he was smiling brilliantly at her. “It’s Keladry of Mindelan, isn’t it?” he asked, studying her face in the dim evening light. “I’ve been hearing a great deal about you, my dear.”

Little of it good, I’ll bet, she thought. “Your Majesty is kind to remember me,” she murmured, trying to keep her face neutral. Her heart still pounded, from the climb and from being in the king’s presence, and she was beginning to get a headache. The wind was strong at the top of the tower, chilling the sweat on her skin.

“You’re Lady Ilane’s daughter, aren’t you? How is she?”

She hadn’t expected him to ask after her mother. “She’s well, sire. Thank you for asking.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, smiling warmly at her again. “Now, is there a message? Or did you simply wish to scry up here yourself?”

She had to smile at that. “There is a message, sire, from Sir Gareth of Naxen.” She handed it over, the autumn wind whipping at the paper as she passed it to him. With a twist of his hand, the king spun up a ball of orange light from the air so he could read it, like a tiny sun hovering beside his ear. The real sun had just set, and darkness was coming on fast.

Kel glanced around. As long as she didn’t look straight down, she could stare across distances from the top of the palace wall, and now she found that Balor’s Needle was no different. Ahead of her lay the hills that stretched between Corus and Port Caynn, where the fading light dimly illuminated the road to the sea. The steady, unmoving lights of houses and inns glinted off in the distance like stars, with moving lights to show the passage of travelers through the twilit country. She could see the Royal Forest as well, a deep patch of darkness spreading off into the distance to her left. It was the first time she had seen Tortall like this, woven in light and shadow like a tapestry of the land at dusk, and she was struck by its beauty.

The king had crossed to a small table near the doorway to the inner staircase, upon which a stack of papers lay, weighed down by crystals to keep the wind from blowing them away. He set the message down under a fist-sized lump of smoky quartz, and then took up a brush and began to write a response. “I imagine you’ll find Sir Gareth in his study at this time of night, or else in the library nearest the Naxen apartments. Don’t worry about disturbing him — I imagine he’ll be hard at work right now.” He blew on the ink to dry it, before handing his note to Kel, along with a coin. “For your courtesy,” he explained.

Kel thanked him and bowed again, tucking the paper and the coin into her pocket. Upon turning to leave, she found that she stood only a foot away from the opening to the outer staircase. In the fading light, through the gaps in the ornamental iron flowers, she could see the rooftops directly below.

Her head swam. The sound of the wind seemed to recede slightly; she could feel her heart pounding again in her chest. She forced her trembling legs to take a step, and then another, carrying her through the open door and away from the outer platform.

To her right, the inner stairway plunged into darkness. Ahead of her lay a void, a great hollow space where the chandelier hung not far above her head, gleaming with harsh light.

She backed up until she felt solid stone under her hands, clinging to the wall beside the door. You’re being ridiculous, she thought, trying to will away a wave of nausea. You climb up and down trees. You climbed up and down from that cave this summer with a wounded leg. Just look at the wall, and take a step. Count to three, and take a step.

“Page Keladry, look at me.”

She couldn’t have said whether she had stood there for minutes or hours before the king spoke. Hands, warm and solid, drew her away from the wall, turning her so she could stare up into his face. His eyes were blue; she felt as though she were falling into them.

She swayed slightly, and might have stumbled if the king hadn’t been gripping her shoulders. “It’s the height, isn’t it?” he said, and his voice seemed to fill the air around them like music. Even the light from the chandelier had faded. “Don’t be ashamed, my dear, it’s natural. Everyone is afraid of something. I myself don’t care much for the dark,” he added, one corner of his mouth lifting in a faint, self-deprecating smile.

It had never occurred to Kel that even a king could suffer from some sort of irrational fear. She tried to swallow, and found that her mouth was too dry.

“Now, listen to me,” said the king gently. “I can arrange it so that your body will take you down the stairs, without your mind being aware of it. This isn’t something you should agree to lightly, of course, but I think it would be best for you in this instance.”

She found herself nodding, without having meant to do so.

“I swear to you, the only thing you will do under this spell is to walk down those stairs. Once you are on the ground, the spell is over. Is that something you would want?”

“Yes, sire,” she croaked. All she wanted was to be on the ground again; her world had narrowed in focus to the king’s voice, the king’s eyes, and the thought of standing on solid ground.

He blinked, frowning slightly. “If, in the future, anyone offers you magic like this again — think very carefully. You don’t want to give away your autonomy lightly.”

She nodded again.

“Of course, it can be done without your knowledge or consent. You do know how to avoid becoming ensorcelled, don’t you? I’m sure you’re taught that as a first-year.”

Master Emeric, who taught magical theory to the pages without the Gift, was easily her dullest teacher, but she had managed to pay close enough attention to remember that, at least. She cleared her throat, trying to speak properly again. “Don’t look them in the eye.”

He continued to frown, and she wondered whether she’d forgotten something. “It may be time for a chat with Master Emeric,” he said thoughtfully. He paused for a moment, studying her face now with what appeared to be intellectual curiosity. “If you like, I could give you a talisman to help you deal with your fear. It wouldn’t be a difficult thing to make. I could have it ready for you within a day or so.”

She shook her head. “No, thank you, sire. What if I lost it? Truly, I’m getting better with heights. It’s just — such a long way down.”

“Very well,” he said, his face unreadable. He lifted his hands from her shoulders, and orange fire flickered around his fingers. Pressing gentle fingertips to her forehead, he said, “You’ll feel as though you’d lost track of time for a moment.”

Kel blinked, and found herself standing at the foot of the staircase. Looking up, she saw the king leaning over the railing, checking to make sure that she’d made it down safely. “Thank you, sire!” she called.

She trudged off toward the Naxen apartments in a gloom. Now Lord Wyldon would really have cause to dismiss her, when the king told him how she’d frozen up at the top of Balor’s Needle. Certainly he had been nice enough up there, but he had let her training master put her on probation. She had no reason to trust him, especially not after showing weakness like that, and letting him enchant her. It wouldn’t be long before the king paid a visit to Lord Wyldon, and told him that he’d had the right of it all along: she wasn’t as good as the boys. They would send her home, without even waiting to see if she failed her examinations.

And what was worse, she realized, as she knocked on the door to Sir Gareth’s study, was that she’d be a danger. If she froze up like that with people in her care, she could get them killed.

Throughout that night and the next day, Kel waited to be called to the training master’s office so he could dismiss her, but the call never came. The next evening, when Lord Wyldon stood up to say something after supper, she braced herself. But he only wanted to remind the pages that King Roger had announced a tournament to be held that Sunday, and he expected them all to attend.

Lord Wyldon didn’t seem to be very happy about that, she noticed. When she voiced this observation to Neal, he raised his eyebrows knowingly. “You’re right, I think. It’s funny — the Stump loves the pageantry of tournaments, all the banners and the lances and the tradition of it all. But there’s a very particular type of pageantry that seems to appeal most to the king. You haven’t seen a tournament here, have you?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never seen one at all. They don’t have them in the Yamani Islands. They just beat each other half to death in training.”

Neal grinned. “The Stump would probably love the Yamanis, too, if he ever managed to get his head out of his behind about them not being Tortallan. Anyway, the Stump is among the best knights in the realm when it comes to jousting. He may even be _the_ best. And yet he hardly ever manages to win a tournament. It’s very curious.”

Kel frowned, puzzled.

“You’ll see.”

Sunday arrived bright and clear, a warm day for late September. Kel sat in the stands with her friends, watching bright banners snap in the breeze as the first knights to compete took their places on either side of the field. From where she sat, she had a clear view of the royal family, who watched the tournament from a box overlooking the lanes. She could make out the king’s dark beard, and the gauzy white veil the queen wore over her brown hair.

The sound of hooves pounding the earth drew her attention back to the field, where the knights crashed together. Neither managed to unhorse the other, but one man’s lance broke. They rode away to prepare for a second pass at each other, and this time one of the men flew from the saddle, landing on the grass with a clatter of plate armor.

Kel squinted at the insignia on the victor’s shield: three yellow fish stacked on top of one another on a green field, framed by lances. Minus the lances, those were the arms of Fief Goldenlake; the lances were the personal insignia of the fief’s heir. Sir Raoul had won, then. She watched him dismount and walk over to his opponent, to offer him a hand up.

“In the old days you could keep the armor and horse of the man you beat,” said Owen, who sat beside her.

“Ah, the glorious barbarism of the past,” said Neal. “Let’s see, next up will be the Stump, I’ll wager.”

“How do you know?” asked Kel.

“The king likes to pit the best jousters against each other early,” he replied, doing something complicated with his eyebrows. “It tires them out.”

He was right about Lord Wyldon. They watched their training master knock Wayland of Darroch from his horse, and then Paxton of Nond tilted against a visiting knight from Tusaine. Both men stayed in their saddles, but the judges gave the victory to Sir Paxton. As another pair of knights rode onto the field, Kel tried to decide whether she liked the tournament. It was educational, at least, but it also seemed like a good way to injure your best warriors. She knew all the purposes that a tournament served for the realm, but sometimes, when the knights crashed together hard on the field, she couldn’t help but wince.

Nearly an hour after the tournament began, Alexander of Tirragen rode onto the field, to compete against Ansil of Groten. “Ah, here we go,” said Neal under his breath, as their horses thundered down the lanes. Kel watched with interest as Lord Alexander knocked Sir Ansil from the saddle.

“Is he one of the best at jousting?” she asked, beginning to see where the tournament was going. Lord Alexander was not a large man, not like Lord Wyldon or Sir Raoul, but she remembered his accuracy when tilting at rings. His horse was fast and agile, and he rode like someone who had never known any fear of falling, of going too fast.

“Not at all. Well, he’s good, but he’s not on the same level as the Stump. If this were a dueling exhibition, he’d wipe the floor with just about any opponent you threw at him, but in a fair joust the Stump or Sir Raoul would beat him every time.”

She felt a chill. “So this isn’t a fair contest.”

“Not even close. Take my word for it, the king had a hand in arranging these matches. He’ll give his favorites the easier opponents until most of the best ones have taken each other out of the running, and then at the end we’ll probably see Lord Tirragen tilting against an exhausted Stump.”

“Can’t be King’s Champion if you don’t win every time, right?” said Merric, who sat on the other side of Neal.

“Well, sometimes he’s out of town,” Neal admitted. “Or the king has his eye on some other knight. But I haven’t heard anything about a new favorite at court, so he’ll probably win this one.”

“But that’s _pointless_ ,” said Kel. “Why even hold a tournament, if you already know who’s going to win?”

Neal shrugged. “I suppose he just likes watching it play out.”

As Kel mulled that over, Lord Wyldon rode out onto the field again, to joust against Raoul of Goldenlake. She leaned forward in her seat as they lowered their visors, taking note of the fact that Neal was doing the same thing. After his show of detached cynicism, her friend looked suddenly interested in the events unfolding on the field.

It was like two mountains colliding, when the knights met in the middle of the lanes. Somehow, both men managed to stay in their saddles. When they rode together for a second time, their collision nearly drowned out by the noise of the crowd, Sir Raoul’s lance broke. Their horses danced away from each other. As he returned to the end of the lane, Kel saw her training master examining his own lance. He passed it to the field monitor, who gave him a fresh one.

On their third pass, Lord Wyldon knocked Sir Raoul from his horse.

“I told you,” said Neal, sounding almost disappointed. “The last match we’ll see today will be the King’s Champion and the Stump. Poor Stump. His arms will be like overcooked carrots by then.”

Kel glanced toward the king again, frowning. From this distance she couldn’t make out the expression on his face, but he seemed to be leaning forward, as though intent on the proceedings. Above him the Conté banner danced in the breeze, showing a silver crown and sword on a blue field. Beside it, and noticeably lower in height, flapped a white flag adorned with a green serpent. Movement drew Kel’s eyes to the box again, and she watched the queen raise a hand to her mouth, as though trying to conceal a yawn.

They watched Alexander of Tirragen tilt against Hildrec of Meron, who flew from his saddle at their second pass, and then watched Sacherell of Wellam lose narrowly to a knight from Galla. He hadn’t managed to knock Sir Sacherell off his horse, but the judges seemed to agree that the Gallan knight’s form was better. One by one, knights were eliminated from the competition until, as Neal had predicted, only Lord Alexander and Lord Wyldon were left.

“I think I’ll visit the menagerie tonight,” said Neal as the knights took their places at either end of the field. “Watch the howler monkeys caper about. Want to join me?”

Lord Wyldon spares us from punishment work for one week because of the tournament, thought Kel, and he treats it as a grand holiday. “For a bit,” she said, leaning closer to him to be heard over the trumpet. Her heart thundered at his nearness, but she tried to ignore that. “I hope you haven’t forgotten we still have homework.”

“How could I? Sometimes it feels like I’ll never _not_ have homework.”

In the lanes, the knights came together in a crash of armor. Lord Alexander’s lance broke; his black gelding danced away from Lord Wyldon’s mare, Cavall’s Heart. They rode apart for a second pass at each other. He knows, thought Kel, as she watched Lord Alexander accept another lance from the field monitor. He must know he’s not as good as Lord Wyldon, that the tournament is rigged. She wondered whether it bothered him as much as it bothered her. She had met him twice face-to-face, and he seemed like the kind of person who valued hard work. In Hill Country, he had spoken to her of fairness. Someone like that, she thought, wouldn’t be comfortable cheating.

She couldn’t help but wince the second time they collided. Lord Wyldon’s lance slammed into Lord Alexander’s shield, and Lord Alexander slammed into the back of his tilting saddle, but he stayed on his horse. His own lance glanced off of Lord Wyldon’s shield.

“It doesn’t _look_ like his arms feel like overcooked carrots,” Owen pointed out, frowning at their training master.

Kel expected one of them to be on the ground after the third pass, and if she had to wager, she’d say it would be Lord Alexander. When they collided again, she was surprised to see both of them still in the saddle. Lord Wyldon’s lance had broken. She glanced toward the judges, who were conferring, and then at Neal, who looked unimpressed.

“I’m not sure anyone has managed to knock the Stump off his horse since he passed his Ordeal,” he said, with a shrug.

There was a hush as one of the judges signaled to the herald, followed by the announcement that the victory had been awarded to Alexander of Tirragen. “Who wants to visit the menagerie with me?” asked Neal, looking cheerful now that it was over.

When Thom of Trebond stumbled back into the palace that morning, it was with the knowledge that elsewhere on the grounds, a tournament was taking place. His manservant, Colwin, had the gall to inform him of this fact as Thom waved his hand in front of the door to his sitting room, unlocking the guard spells on it.

Thom turned to stare at him, eyes wide. His eyes tended to spook people. They had never worked on Colwin, but he kept trying regardless. To his frustration, the man merely gazed back at him impassively, still clutching Thom’s saddlebags.

“Listen to me carefully,” said Thom softly. “I don’t care. I have been on the road for the better part of the last six months. If Roger sends for me, because he wants me to observe his brutal little farce, tell him that I am asleep. No, better yet, tell him he can take that jeweled wizard’s rod of his and shove it right up his — you can cut the sentence off there, he’ll understand what you mean.”

Colwin raised an eyebrow. “His jeweled what, my lord?”

“Oh, I forgot, he doesn’t carry that wizard’s rod around very often anymore. My suspicion is that the queen told him it was garish and ugly. Gods bless her if that’s true.” With a heavy sigh, he lurched into his palace apartment. Colwin followed him. The door swung shut behind them, and the crystal lamps mounted on the walls began to glow.

“Shall I draw a bath, my lord?”

Thom gazed around the sitting room, bleary-eyed. As usual, it was in very bad shape. “I should let the maids in here more often,” he muttered, as he began to pick his way through the clutter toward the bedroom. “What? Yes, yes, fine, a bath. Then I’m going to sleep for a week. Get a small army of maids in here to clean while I’m unconscious, would you? Don’t let them touch anything dangerous.”

Late March had been too early in the year to ride north, but Roger hadn’t seemed to care, so that was when Thom had set off for the City of the Gods. At that time of year, the roads were composed mainly of half-frozen mud. Shivering, pelted by sleet, he had trudged north at roughly the pace of a dying tortoise, accompanied by Colwin and Sir Douglass, the knight who had been assigned to protect him from bandits and spidrens. At various inns along the way, he’d eaten bad food and attempted to carry on some semblance of intelligent conversation with Sir Douglass.

“You’re very handsome and strapping,” Thom recalled telling him at one point, over watered-down ale. The knight frowned at that, looking puzzled to hear a compliment from Thom. “You’ve coasted on that for your entire life, haven’t you?”

“It seems to me,” replied Sir Douglass, “that a sorcerer ought to be able to protect himself on the road.”

“Why not go home, then? Go back to the palace. Go and tell the king that you misplaced me. I’m sure he’ll be delighted.”

After weeks of traveling, it was a relief to reach the City of the Gods. Orange-robed initiates met them at the Mithran cloisters, to show Sir Douglass and Colwin to their rooms in the guests’ wing and to lead Thom to a sitting room, where he was told that the chief of the masters awaited his arrival.

He strode into the sitting room, stopping short when he saw its occupant. Si-cham sat at a low table beside the window, preparing two glasses of tea in the style of eastern Galla. “Mithros, you’re not dead yet. I’m shocked. I’d have thought _this_ winter would have finished you off at last.”

“Good afternoon, Lord Thom,” replied Si-cham. “How was your journey?”

He sank into the chair across from him. “Awful.”

“How strong would you like your tea?”

“Weak,” he said, watching Si-cham dilute his tea with hot water. His stomach was still lurching after the long journey. When the old man passed him the glass, Thom stirred two spoonfuls of honey into it. “So how _old_ are you now, anyway? Nearing a hundred and fifty, I’d wager.”

“Not quite, but I admire your optimism. And how is _your_ health?”

Thom shrugged. A few years ago, Duke Baird had begun pleading with him to start exercising and sleeping more regularly, and to cut back on rich foods and wine. The way Thom saw it, he wasn’t dead yet, so he must be doing something right.

“I would ask after your family,” Si-cham went on, “but I know that you aren’t in close contact with your sister, and I expect you still haven’t married.”

Thom rolled his eyes. “No, I haven’t. Don’t tell me I should have become a priest.”

“I was not planning on it. Ah yes, how are things progressing with the new King’s University? Are you still teaching the pages magic at the palace?”

“Yes, but only for one month out of every year,” said Thom, settling back in his chair. He took a sip of his tea, grimacing at the smoky taste of it. “Roger likes for the little mages to keep switching teachers, to give them a more diverse education. And the university is doing very well so far. Marvelous, really. We’ve students coming to us from all over the realm. A few of them even arrived from Tusaine this past autumn.”

The old man smiled. “I’m glad.”

“Are you? Surely some of you lot must be jealous of us.”

How quickly Si-cham’s smiles faded when he was around. “I thought you might say that. Perhaps you’re right about some of the other masters, but I can assure you that I am not jealous, Lord Thom. I would not want to see learning confined to fewer places in this world.”

Thom wasn’t sure how to respond to that. He took another sip of his tea, gazing out the window at the bleak gray mountains beyond the city walls. How had he managed to ignore them for the better part of a decade? How could Si-cham bear to look at them? Perhaps his eyes were starting to fail.

“Tell me,” said Si-cham, “have you dealt with many difficult students, in your teaching career thus far?”

Thom raised an eyebrow. “What, like me?”

The old man met his eyes calmly. “Yes, you would be one example. Students who, like you, have trouble getting along with their peers. Or students in possession of a great deal of talent and raw power, but a poor sense of ethics.”

Thom frowned. It sounded as though Si-cham were talking about someone else now, someone specific. “I’ve had a few difficult students. Why do you ask?”

“I am curious as to how you respond to them.”

Slowly, Thom set his glass of tea down on the table. “Mithros, are you asking me for _advice_? Me?”

“Yes, I am,” said Si-cham, smiling at him again.

Thom stared at him, appalled. “Why?”

“When dealing with a difficult situation, I often find it helpful to gain a fresh perspective on the matter. In this case, I believe yours would be ideal. You have lived and studied here, but not for quite some time. You’ve also lived and studied elsewhere, and now you are a teacher yourself.”

But you hate me, thought Thom. He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, considering. “What’s the situation, then? Who’s the problem?”

Si-cham poured a little more concentrated tea into his own glass, followed by more hot water. “There is a student of magic here,” he began, “who appears to possess a strong aptitude for necromancy.”

“Aptitude is just that — aptitude,” Thom pointed out. “It’s not destiny.”

“True, but some of his teachers are becoming concerned about his interest in the subject. Over the past year, he has become increasingly preoccupied with the idea of measuring the physical dimensions and capacity of the human soul.”

Thom frowned. “Has anyone caught him doing anything about that? Enslaving spirits to harness their power for his dark spells, say?”

“No.”

“You said he seems to lack ethics. Is that your observation, or someone else’s?”

“That is the general opinion of his teachers and fellow students — those who know him better than I — but I cannot say that I disagree. Nonetheless, he has not done anything for which we can expel him from his studies.”

“But there are subtler ways of persuading someone to leave,” Thom pointed out, stirring another spoonful of honey into his tea. “Some of them were tried on me over the years, without success. You could try them on him.”

“That is true,” said Si-cham carefully. “But I wonder if that would be the best solution. If this young man is as dangerous as I fear he may be, perhaps it would be better if he stayed here, where his teachers could keep an eye on him.”

Thom raised his eyebrows. “And where he has access to all those books.”

The old man winced slightly at that. “I confess, I’m rather at a loss as to what to do about him. I would be grateful, I think, if you would speak with him.”

“You think,” repeated Thom. “Suppose I just made him worse?”

“That is certainly a possibility,” Si-cham replied, with a note of irony in his voice. “But at this point, I believe I’m willing to take that risk.”

The next morning, a novice showed Thom to one of the libraries near the students’ wing. A small, pale young man sat at a table in the corner of the room, chewing on a thumbnail as he read. Thom winced at the sight of the familiar brown robes he wore and the stubble on his shaved head. He glanced at the novice beside him, who nodded.

Thom jerked his head toward the doorway, indicating that the boy could leave them alone now. He wandered over to a bookcase, scanning the titles on the shelves. Did the masters never acquire new books? When he looked up again, the student sitting at the table was watching him.

“What are _you_ reading?” Thom asked him. “Anything interesting?”

“You’re not a priest,” the student observed. There was a touch of Galla in his accent. “I’ve never seen you before.”

He looked to be in his early twenties. His face was almost painfully ordinary; if Thom had happened to pass by him on a city street, he would not have given the young man a second glance. For just a moment, Thom wondered whether the novice had made a mistake, and pointed out the wrong student.

“I arrived yesterday from Corus. I’m Thom of Trebond.”

His eyes widening, the student scrambled to his feet. The book fell shut, and Thom saw that it was a needlessly lengthy, rather dull treatise on the weight of the soul, written by a healer from the fourth century who had weighed several of his terminally ill patients just before and after death, with inconclusive results. “I’m honored, my lord,” said the student, straightening from a deep bow.

Thom shrugged. “Please, don’t let me interrupt your studies. I was only looking for something interesting to read, but I rather doubt I’m going to find it here.”

“I didn’t realize you were visiting the City of the Gods. Will you be staying long?”

Thom looked him over, seeing the way he fidgeted, his pasty skin and hungry eyes. With discomfort, he recognized a flicker of himself in the boy. “A fortnight at least. Perhaps longer. What’s your name?” he asked, though he already knew.

“Blayce Younger.”

Thom nodded, his eyes on the book. “I’ve read that, I believe. Shoddy work.”

Blayce looked taken aback by that. “Do you really think so?”

“Of course. He went off on so many useless tangents. And he never once compared his patients who had the Gift to those who didn’t. If you’re going to attempt to weigh the soul, you ought to take into account the weight of magic.”

“Ah,” said Blayce, gazing down at the book again. “That’s a fair point.”

“If you’re that interested in old and arcane miscellanea, I recommend Ricard of Halleburn.”

Blayce frowned. “You think this is arcane miscellanea, my lord? I think it could potentially be very useful.”

“The weight of the human soul? If you’re talking about harnessing that energy in some way, perhaps.” He studied the young man’s face, disquieted by the intensity he saw in his eyes. If there was one person who would love to meet Blayce Younger, it was Roger.

“Harnessing it?” said Blayce carefully. “That’s the kind of thing that would get me expelled from the cloisters.”

The things I’ve done for him, thought Thom. The things I have done, the things I have sacrificed — and it would all be forgotten, all be for nothing, if he happened to meet this boy. “Yes, I imagine the masters would take exception to necromancy,” he said.

Blayce picked at a ragged fingernail, pursing his thin mouth. “They’re very quick to judge. They fear certain kinds of power, so they call it evil. Didn’t you pass your exams for Mastery at the age of eighteen?”

“Seventeen,” said Thom automatically. “I was just shy of eighteen.”

Blayce shook his head slowly. “Gods.”

“I slept very little for most of that decade. I don’t recommend that.” He turned back to the bookcase, frowning. “I think I’ll try one of the other libraries. It was nice meeting you,” he added, nodding to Blayce before he turned and walked out of the room.

Instead of visiting another library, Thom made his way back to Si-cham’s sitting room. As he knocked on the door, it occurred to him that it was entirely possible that the old man had died during the night. Then he heard Si-cham’s voice, telling him he could come in, and he opened the door.

“You were right,” he said to Si-cham, who sat at his desk writing a letter. “You do have a problem.”

Si-cham sighed. “I feared you would say that. It is rare that I find myself hoping I am wrong, but this was one such case. Tell me, is there anything you would recommend, in dealing with Blayce?”

There was only one thing that came to mind, and he knew it wasn’t helpful. “Don’t let him meet the king.”

Si-cham nodded slowly. “Yes, I can see why you would say that. Do you agree that it would be safer to keep him here, if we can?”

He wasn’t sure that he did. If the masters tried to keep Blayce from pursuing his interests openly, he would only find a way to study in secret, as Thom had. But if the alternative was letting him loose in the wider world . . .

“I’d say that’s the better option,” said Thom at last. “But it isn’t much of a solution, really. I’m afraid I don’t have any good answers for you.”

Si-cham nodded again, looking thoughtful. “Will you give the subject further consideration, while you’re here?”

Thom sighed. Even if he tried to wash his hands of the matter, he suspected that his conversation with Blayce Younger would haunt him for a while. “Very well.”

“Thank you,” said Si-cham, smiling at him. “That’s all I can ask for, really.”

He stayed in the City of the Gods for nearly three weeks, talking with masters and students, priests and priestesses. He visited with Princess Jessamine, Roger’s only daughter, who was trapped in a convent under the watchful eye of the Daughters of the Goddess, and even took her and her chattering friends to an eating-house in the city one evening. A few days after he arrived, she led him on a tour through the Goddess temple gardens.

“You know, I’d forgotten this was here,” he said, as they sat down to rest for a while, on a bench beside a small ornamental lake. The thin crust of ice over the water was beginning to break apart; crocuses bloomed amidst the waning patches of snow along the shore. “I spent two years at the convent, before I was old enough to enter the cloisters, and I’d completely forgotten. It’s beautiful.”

“They don’t have anything like it at the cloisters?” she asked.

“Hard to say. Most of the time I stayed in my room.” He gazed toward the distant gray mountains, with their crowns of snow under the pale sky. “Well, are you still enjoying yourself here?”

“Oh yes,” she replied cheerfully.

“You didn’t want to come to the City of the Gods, at first.”

Jessamine looked amused by that. “That was _years_ ago, Lord Thom. I’ve made so many friends since then. You’ve met them.”

He had indeed met them, the pack of laughing girls who knew the princess far better now than he did. Thom studied her face for a moment, thinking of his own lonely years in the Mithran cloisters, and then attempted a smile. “Good. I’m glad.”

“How are my brothers? Did Gavain survive his first year as a page?”

He shrugged. “As far as I know. It’s not quite over yet, and they still have that summer outing into Hill Country, or wherever they’re being dragged off to this year. I’m sure he’ll be fine, though. But that reminds me, here’s a bit of news — evidently little Alexander doesn’t want to be a knight.”

She frowned slightly. “Sandy’s only eight. He may yet change his mind.”

“I disagree. I’d argue that he’s old enough to know his own mind.”

“What’s he going to do, if he doesn’t become a knight?”

Thom smiled, focusing now on telling the tale properly, rather than wondering what might have been, had he been a little more like Jessamine growing up, and less like himself. “That’s exactly what your father asked him, when he made his declaration before the king and queen. He replied that he was going to be a prince, and a scholar.”

She grinned. “That does sound like Sandy.”

“Now, your father pointed out that Alexander has no Gift. I think that’s really what threw him, that he has no Gift. What do the Giftless do, after all, if not try for their knighthood? Your brother replied that he didn’t see why he should have to spend eight years learning how to hit people with swords when all he liked to do was read.”

“I recall Gavain saying something very similar to Father,” said Jessamine. “It didn’t work.”

“True. But this time your mother was very adamant that little Sandy should not have to undergo page training if he didn’t wish to become a knight. She said that she didn’t want to see all of her sons die in battle. I backed her, and your father and dear old Uncle Alex actually backed down, on the condition that Sandy keep up with his fencing and archery training. Remarkable, isn’t it?”

She cocked her head, thinking that over. “Sandy’s going to study at your new university. That’s the plan, isn’t it? You liked the idea of a prince coming to your school.”

“You really think me so mercenary?” said Thom, amused. “As it happens, I wholeheartedly agreed with your mother. Though I won’t say I _dislike_ the idea of having a prince at King’s University.”

He cleared his throat, remembering something else. “You know, there’s talk of you returning to the palace when Prince Jon’s betrothed arrives from the Yamani Islands. Your mother wants you to stay in Corus and be one of her ladies, until you sail off to Carthak to marry the emperor.”

Jessamine was silent for a few moments, frowning slightly again. “When is she arriving?”

“Next year, just before Midwinter. You’d have to set out in October at the latest, before the passes close for the winter.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Will you return to the City of the Gods next year, to see me back to Corus?”

There was a note of worry in her voice, a fear that he would abandon her to make the journey alone, that touched him. “I’d be glad to,” he replied, recalling how he had made that journey alone himself, hundreds of miles to the capital in autumn, after he had completed his practical exam for Mastery and Alanna had been sent away from the palace in disgrace. He’d heard the news of the prince’s untimely death at an inn near Arenaver.

She smiled, looking relieved. “There’s something I wanted to ask you. That girl, the one who’s trying for her knighthood now — is she still there?”

“She is,” said Thom carefully. There had been a time, before Jessamine had left the capital, when she had wanted to be the first lady knight in centuries. “She’s befriended your brother Gavain.”

If she was at all jealous of Keladry, he could see no sign of it on her face. Her smile widened. “Good. He needs friends.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Have Gavain’s letters put you off the dream of knighthood for good?”

“I think he could manage to put anyone off it,” she said wisely, and Thom smiled, remembering Alanna’s letters when they were children, separated from one another for the first time. She had always made her training sound so unappealing, often without meaning to.

The night before he left the City of the Gods, he visited Si-cham again in his office, to say goodbye. “Keep Blayce Younger here,” he told him, on his way out the door. “For as long as you can. Have the masters keep an eye on him, and do their best to keep him from trying any experiments. If you catch him doing any, you may want to try binding his magic for a time.”

Si-cham raised an eyebrow. “Unless he agreed to that, it would be highly unethical.”

Thom shrugged. “True,” he said, and then drew a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to him. “This is a list of books that should be kept away from him, if at all possible.”

Si-cham glanced at the list before tucking it away in his sleeve. Then, to Thom’s surprise, he reached out and patted him on the shoulder. “Thank you for your advice, Lord Thom. I wish you safe travels.”

The ride to Fief Trebond was easier than the ride north had been, now that it was summer even along the Scanran border. At a way station along the Great Road North, in conversation with the innkeeper, Sir Douglass learned that there had been flooding on Trebond land a fortnight earlier, which had damaged several of the buildings in the village. Having expected to spend less than a month at his fief, Thom soon realized, after conferring with his steward Armen upon his arrival, that he would be spending the entire summer there instead.

He never liked returning to Trebond. The castle was too gray and cold, too empty and simultaneously full of memories. Worst of all, he always forgot where the mirrors were. Passing through a suite of rooms on his way to the library, he would catch a glimpse of flame-red hair out of the corner of his eye. Turning to face it, his heart swelling with wonder, he would invariably discover a mirror he’d forgotten about. The sooner he could return to Corus, he thought, the better.


	2. Tactics and Strategy

**454 H.E.**

A few days after the rigged tournament, Lord Wyldon added more weight to their vests. Kel was fairly certain that he was taking out his annoyance at his defeat on them. She trudged back to her room at a trot, wanting to change out of her practice clothes as fast as she could and get down to lunch early. Whatever they were serving that day, she was fairly certain she could eat Peachblossom’s weight of it.

With Lalasa’s help, she washed up and changed in record time. A few minutes later, she was hurrying back down the corridor. As she passed the stairway leading to the squires’ wing, she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned her head, and jumped back just in time, before Joren collided with her.

He stopped suddenly, looking appalled to see her standing there. “Out of my way,” he snapped.

“ _I’m_ heading to lunch,” she retorted, surprise and exhaustion making her forget herself. It was usually better to just ignore him, she reminded herself.

“Do you think I care where you’re going?” he asked coolly.

She shrugged, and started to walk away. To her surprise, he followed her, quickening his steps to push past her. “Did you enjoy that farce of a tournament?” he asked, a bitter edge to his voice.

“It was educational,” she replied, without turning to look at him.

“Really? You think it’s _educational_ to watch the king’s pets win every tournament? I don’t. I told Sir Paxton I had a headache and went for a ride in the Royal Forest when he wasn’t looking.”

Kel hadn’t expected Joren to confide in her, and found that she didn’t like it at all. “I thought Lord Wyldon performed well.”

He sneered at her. “You needn’t suck up to him. It won’t stop him from hating you.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” she murmured.

“You weren’t here for the last tournament, were you? No, it happened the year before you arrived. Sir Leor of Meag Marsh won that one, though he’s a mediocre jouster.” His mouth twisted with distaste. “He was also sleeping with the king, and everyone knew it. After they broke it off, he stopped winning tournaments.”

Kel shrugged again. Though that story was in keeping with Neal’s views on the machinations behind the tournament, she had found that “everyone” was often wrong about what they knew. Either way, she didn’t want to hear about Joren’s contempt for men who slept with other men, or anyone else he considered to be beneath him, which struck her as a staggeringly arrogant way to feel about one’s king. “I’m not familiar with Sir Leor,” she said.

Joren narrowed his eyes at her. “Pretending to be immune to gossip doesn’t work, you know. It won’t deter people from saying things about _you_.”

“Good thing that’s not my aim, then.”

She heard familiar voices behind her, and glanced around to see that Owen and Prince Gavain had nearly caught up to them. “Kel!” said Owen, grinning at her. “We’re having a debate about Stormwings. How do _you_ think they braid their hair?”

“The answer is not ‘with their feet’,” said Gavain quietly, shaking his head as if disappointed in him. “They _do_ have magic, you know.”

Joren’s eyes lighted on the prince. His mouth twisted, and for a moment Kel thought he was about to say something to him. “Excuse me,” he muttered to her instead. “I can’t even bear to look at him.”

He strode away, headed for the mess hall, and Kel watched him with her mouth hanging open, shocked. “What on earth?”

“Oh, he hates me,” said Gavain, not looking at all surprised by Joren’s behavior. Neither did Owen, which suggested that whatever was going on, Gavain had told him about it.

“Why?” asked Kel. “You’re a second-year page. I didn’t even think he _knew_ you.”

“He doesn’t, really. He just knows I’m the prince, and that I have the Gift with healing. Come on,” he said, as he started walking again. “We’re going to be late for lunch. I’m fairly certain it started with the congress this summer. My uncle was there — Garnier of Eldorne — and he says that Burchard of Stone Mountain was a thorn in the king’s side. Constantly blocking every law Father supported.”

Kel raised an eyebrow. “And now Joren hates you because his father clashed with yours?”

“Not exactly,” said Gavain, meeting her eyes evenly. “About a week into the congress, Lord Burchard came down with a nasty fever, and had to go home. The congress continued without him.”

Kel stared at him. “Is he all right?” she asked, wondering whether Joren blamed the king for his father’s illness.

“Well, he survived, at least. But I don’t think he’s fully recovered yet. Joren only just returned from Stone Mountain. I bumped into him yesterday in the library, and he asked me whether _I_ could make people sick, too.”

“I overheard him calling you ‘the sorcerer’s brat’ this morning,” Owen chimed in. “I punched him in the stomach.”

“So that’s why you have a black eye and two months of punishment work,” Kel murmured, before turning back to Gavain. “That’s _wrong_ , for Joren to blame you for something he thinks your father did. I’m sorry Lord Burchard is sick, but Joren’s three years older than you and a squire. I doubt he’s treating your older brother like this.”

“Oh, I’m certain he isn’t,” said Gavain, as they walked into the mess hall together. “I wish you hadn’t punched him, Owen. I’m trying to just ignore Joren, lest my family find out about this. Their response would be — disproportionate.”

Kel shivered. “You don’t think your father _did_ cause his illness, do you?”

They began to load down their plates with roast quail, parsnips and carrots, and stewed greens. “I’d prefer not to, obviously,” said Gavain, reaching for a roll. “But I don’t really know. He’s certainly powerful enough to do it, and he _can_ be ruthless sometimes.”

She watched him uneasily, trying to imagine what it would be like to suspect your own father of having hurt someone like that. “Are you all right?”

He shrugged. “I’m managing. With any luck, the Lord Provost will give Sir Paxton border duty over the winter, and we won’t have to deal with Joren for a while.” He glanced at Owen. “I’m not asking Father to speed that up, though.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” said Owen, looking innocent.

“I got the sense you were thinking it,” said Gavain. “Oh look, there’s an empty table.”

Joren declined to show up to their first Sunday night lesson in combat tactics, but to Kel’s surprise, the crown prince was there. Prince Jonathan, in turn, raised his eyebrows when he saw Gavain standing between her and Owen. “Well met, brother,” he said, a little mockingly. “I thought you weren’t required to come to these little salons.”

“Neither are you,” Gavain pointed out.

“That’s not what Father told me.” He looked as though he were about to say something else, but at that moment the king swept into the room.

There was a model set up on a table in the center of the mess hall, depicting a battle fought early in the Tusaine War. Lord Wyldon stood behind it, moving soldiers into place on both sides of the Drell River. “Gather round, gather round,” said the king as he went to stand beside him, smiling pleasantly at the pages and squires. “Your training master wanted to begin these lessons with a relatively recent event. I thought this battle would be a good place to start, because it would have turned out very differently if not for some quick decisions made in the field by Earl Hamrath of King’s Reach. We are fortunate here in Tortall that our most recent war is twenty years old, well before your time,” he added, smiling again.

This lesson was very different from Kel’s other classes. She crowded in closer around the table with the other pages, and they listened as Lord Wyldon and the king explained which troops had been stationed where. They were asked to think about why certain types of warriors might be placed in one spot and not another, and which weapons might be more useful at different points in a battle. At first the room was quiet, with pages reluctant to voice their suggestions in front of the king, but he only smiled encouragingly at them, and by the end of the lesson they were asking and answering questions more freely, a chorus of young voices raised in counterpoint to the king’s tenor and Lord Wyldon’s baritone. The next bell rang far too soon.

“Boring,” said Merric with a yawn, as they were walking down the corridor toward the pages’ wing. “I can put the time to better use.”

Kel shook her head, baffled by this. She would have been happy if the lesson had continued all night. The king and Lord Wyldon had managed to make the battle come to life in a way that their other teachers usually couldn’t.

“I just assumed he’d gotten you too,” Prince Jonathan was saying to his younger brother, just ahead of her. He was a head taller than Gavain, and Gavain’s hair was several shades lighter, but aside from that, they looked very much alike.

“No, he didn’t say anything to me,” replied Gavain. “I thought it might be interesting, and most of my friends wanted to go.”

“It must have slipped his mind. I made the mistake of mentioning that the class wasn’t a requirement for squires, only fourth-year pages, and then he started going on about how useful it is to learn tactics and strategy for _any_ nobleman, and what a grave error it is to turn down a lesson that’s offered to you. What if we learn something on Sunday night that’s going to prove instrumental when I lead a company of men for the first time, but I’m not there on Sunday to hear it? He started telling me about how he wasn’t originally in command during the Tusaine War — it was supposed to be Duke Gareth but he was thrown from his horse — but Father rose to the occasion and I must do the same in a time of crisis if I’m called to it, and so on and so forth.”

“Did he mention he was going to be there?” asked Gavain.

“No, he only said something ominous like ‘I’ll know if you don’t show up.’ Still, it wasn’t as dull as I thought it would be. You’ll be there next week?”

Gavain nodded. His brother clapped him on the shoulder before walking away, toward the staircase leading up to the squires’ wing. When he had gone, Gavain glanced behind him, and his eyes met Kel’s. “So that was Jon,” he said mildly. “He says he rather likes being Father’s squire, but I don’t think I’d care for it myself.”

“Are you expected to be the king’s squire as well?” she asked.

“I don’t think so. It isn’t set in stone yet, but he’s been looking around for someone to be my knight-master, when the time comes. I think he’s leaning toward either Imrah of Legann or Alexander of Tirragen, but at this point it’s hard to say.”

“Will he give you a choice at all?”

Gavain smiled rather bleakly. “He may, but if he does he’ll make it very clear whom he wants me to choose.”

She clapped him on the shoulder the way his brother had, smiling sympathetically. “Going to join us in the library?”

He winced. “I’d better. Gods, I still have an entire essay to write for Yayin’s class.”

Three weeks later, during tilting practice, Kel’s lance broke. Lord Wyldon gave her permission to leave practice early, to take her new lance to be weighted, so long as she tended to Peachblossom first and was on time for lunch. There was a short line at the smithy. As she waited in it, she had time to think of the long bath she intended to take as soon as she got back to her rooms.

“Oh gods,” said a voice behind her. “Crowded today.”

It was a boy’s voice, vaguely familiar and starting to break around the edges. She turned slightly, glancing behind her, and saw the crown prince. He grinned at her.

She had to turn around properly then, and bow to him. “Good morning, Your Highness.”

“Don’t do that, there isn’t enough elbow room here for it. It’s Keladry, isn’t it?” He cocked his head, frowning curiously at her lance. “Surely you’re not here to have that weighted.”

Why else, she thought, would anyone bring a practice lance to a smithy? Suddenly she remembered Neal making a point of telling Lord Wyldon that she practiced with weighted weapons in front of everyone, and it was a struggle to keep her face smooth and expressionless. “I am, Your Highness.”

“Of course you are, stupid thing for me to say. What else would you be doing here?”

She smiled slightly at that, knowing that was the response he expected, and waited to see whether he was going to say anything else to her.

“You may be wondering what _I’m_ doing here,” he went on. “I’m here for a lesson in swordsmithing, because my honored father says I need to learn how to make my weapons as well as wield them, but now I think I’m going to wait until after lunch.”

That struck her as an interesting idea, though Kel had to wonder what kind of practice sword a squire largely untrained in smithing would make. “That’s probably sensible,” she said. They had nearly reached the front of the line now, but she imagined that his lesson would take more time than her bath.

Prince Jonathan was studying her thoughtfully. “My cousin Jasson of Eldorne’s in your year. He speaks highly of you, as does my brother Gavain.”

“It’s kind of Your Highness to remember me.”

He shook his head, frowning. “You don’t talk to Gavain like this, do you? Your Highness this and Your Highness that? I know they drill us all in etiquette, but I hate all this bowing and scraping.”

She smiled at him again, but there was something about this that made her uneasy. “So does Gavain. I’ll talk to you like you’re an ordinary person, if that’s what you want.”

A memory struck her then, of the way the king had spoken to the assembled pages that Sunday night: just like an ordinary person. Now that she thought about it, the only time she could remember hearing him speak formally had been on the day of the tournament. During his end-of-year speeches in the mess hall, and her conversation with him at the top of Balor’s Needle, he had never made a point of trying to sound especially kingly. What was making her uneasy, she realized, was the fluidity of their language, the ease with which the royal family could transcend boundaries. In Yamani, the social hierarchy was built into the language itself, in a way that it wasn’t when she spoke Common Eastern.

“Thank you,” said the prince.

Reaching the front of the line, Kel left her practice lance with one of the smiths. She told him the weight she wanted for it while Jonathan waited off to one side, watching her. “I won’t make the mistake of asking how you can even lift that much,” he said.

“Practice,” she replied, and he grinned.

“Are you enjoying our lessons in combat tactics?” he asked her, as they walked back toward the palace together. “Father speaks well, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, I am. He’s a good teacher.”

“They call him the Sorcerer King, you know, but he doesn’t really do all that much magic these days. He simply doesn’t have the time. Sometimes people think he’s working magic when he isn’t, because he’s very persuasive.”

She glanced at the prince, whom she had only regarded from a distance until today. He was tall for a boy of fifteen, with his father’s dark hair and handsome features; his eyes were brown rather than blue, but there was a similar intensity about them. Looking at him, she had the sense that she was seeing what the king would have looked like as a very young man. “Do you have the Gift as well?” she asked.

He winced. “Not much of one. I can call light and fire, but that’s about it. The real mage in the family, aside from Father, is my sister Jess.”

Gavain had once let slip that Princess Jessamine had wanted to be the first openly female page when their father had changed the law five years earlier, but the king and queen had talked her out of it. Kel hadn’t been surprised when he’d told her that; she didn’t think much of the king, on the whole, and he certainly seemed to have a talent for talking people into things. Charm and charisma, she thought, was its own kind of magic, in a way.

“You were raised mainly in the Yamani Islands, weren’t you?” asked Prince Jonathan, as they made their way toward the pages’ wing. Kel wasn’t sure whether he intended to walk her to her room, or whether he merely lived in the squires’ wing one floor up. Some of the squires lived in rooms adjoining those of their knight-masters, and as the prince he was bound to have rooms elsewhere in the palace anyway.

“That’s right.”

“So you speak the language? And you know their ways?”

“I don’t get much opportunity to speak Yamani these days,” she said, “so I’m a little rusty with the language. You’re betrothed to Princess Shinkokami now, aren’t you?”

He smiled ruefully. “Father’s given me a lot of books to read, about the language and culture, so I can learn something before she gets here next winter. Their history and culture are interesting enough, but I can’t make heads or tails of the grammar. All those little words marking parts of speech. Yamani isn’t anything like Common, is it?”

“No, it’s completely unrelated.” The ancestors of the Yamanis had arrived in the islands thousands of years ago from across the western sea, which was plenty of time for their language to evolve. There were other islands further west, she remembered learning, where distantly related languages were spoken, but there was nothing closely related to Yamani as far as she knew.

“Simple sentences are all right,” Jonathan was saying. “I can understand those, but anything more complex than that . . .”

“Do you have a teacher?” she asked. “Or just the books?”

“I do. Father appointed someone else recently, after I didn’t get on with the ambassador from the Yamani Islands. Apparently he’d never taught Yamani to any Common speakers before, so we didn’t have much success.” He grinned at her. “It’s your mother, actually. A week ago Father asked Lady Ilane to remain in Corus and teach me Yamani until the princess arrives, and she accepted.”

Kel was startled, and then delighted. “That’s wonderful.”

“Hopefully by the time Princess Shinkokami gets here I’ll be able to carry on an intelligent conversation with her, instead of just speaking in sentences from a Yamani children’s primer. ‘Good morning, my name is Jon. The weather is warm today. This apple is red.’”

She grinned. “You have over a year. I’m sure by then you’ll know the names of other fruits.”

Jonathan laughed. “Maybe even vegetables, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

He had walked her to the door of her room. “Well, I should try to get some reading done before lunch,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll see you in the mess hall.”

Kel assured him that he would, and then she watched him walk away, recalling uneasily how it had felt to stand at the base of the staircase inside Balor’s Needle, looking up at the king on the platform. She liked Jonathan a great deal, and could easily see them becoming friends. She also suspected that she might have liked his father a great deal, in some other world where the probation had never happened, where she had never heard a story about him forbidding his own daughter from becoming a page, where Neal didn’t spend so many of their conversations worrying about listening spells and Joren didn’t believe the king had caused his father’s illness.

“Jon’s always been like that,” said Neal, when she told him about her encounter with the crown prince over lunch that day. “Very personable, very down-to-earth. He has a way of making you feel like you’re the only person in the room.”

Kel raised her eyebrows at him from across the table. “You almost make that sound like a bad thing.”

“Do I?” He glanced across the room at Jonathan, who sat with the other squires in residence at the palace. As autumn wore on, their number was gradually increasing. “I suppose it’s my inherent distrust of excessive charm bleeding through. Say, are you going to eat that other slice of bread?”

She didn’t see much of the prince after that first conversation, though he was friendly with her during their Sunday night lessons in combat tactics. Her days took on a pattern, as they always did in autumn. It wasn’t long before she got used to the adjustments Lord Wyldon had made to their morning combat lessons, where they fought each other in groups of different sizes now. Her archery was improving, and she had started to hit the black dot on the target shield nearly every time she tilted at it.

Winter blew in with the last of the squires to return to the palace that year. Now Kel found herself walking to her morning combat classes over a light dusting of snow, and to her academic classes in the afternoons down corridors decorated with holly and ivy. A few days after the first snowfall of the season, Thom of Trebond invited her to tea in his office.

“This is how they make it in eastern Galla,” he explained, pushing some of the clutter off his desk to make room for two teapots and two glasses. “One pot for concentrated tea, and one for hot water to dilute your tea to whatever strength you like. Then you can add honey to taste, or jam if you’re extremely peculiar, and drink.”

Kel didn’t take any of the offered honey. She blew on her tea before taking an experimental sip, and discovered that it was very different from the green tea she was used to. “It tastes like smoke.”

He nodded. “They bring it west in caravans from beyond the Roof of the World. By the time it reaches Galla some of the smoke from the campfires has seeped into the leaves. I don’t much care for it, but here I am drinking it anyway. I suppose it reminds me of childhood.”

She frowned, puzzled. Trebond was along the northwestern coast of Tortall, near Mindelan, nowhere near Galla. “Childhood?”

“They drink this in the City of the Gods,” he explained. “Keeps the scholars awake at night while they read.” Lord Thom glanced out the window, at the fat snowflakes that had begun to drift down from the clouds. “Looking forward to the Midwinter festivities?”

“Oh yes,” she replied. “People celebrate Midwinter very differently in the Yamani Islands.”

“Do they? How?”

“Quietly, and at home with their families.”

To her surprise, Thom sighed wistfully. “That sounds peaceful. Somebody should tell Roger about that. Maybe for next year — I’ll see if I can convince him that the Yamani princess will be terribly homesick if we don’t celebrate as they do in her native land.”

“You don’t like Midwinter here?” asked Kel.

He leaned forward in his chair, his violet eyes fixed on hers. There was a light in them, a slightly manic intensity, that she had grown familiar with over the past several months. “You’ve seen the glorious entertainments? Players, tumblers, jugglers, musicians, fantastical marzipan subtleties shaped like castles and winged horses? Oh, and mages, of course. What would the Sorcerer King’s court be without some kind of marvelous illusion for everyone to ooh and aww over?”

Evidently the king had asked him to contribute to the festivities. “That must be a lot of pressure, my lord.”

“I won’t lie to you,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “I haven’t slept much over the past couple of days, and I’m a little volatile right now. Less than three weeks to go until Midwinter, and I have precisely nothing.”

“I’m sure you’ll come up with something he’ll like,” she said encouragingly.

He smiled, and it was one of the bleakest smiles she had seen in some time. “Bread and tournaments,” he said.

“I’m sorry?”

“There was a scholar who lived during the reign of Giamo the Tyrant,” he explained, “who wrote that that was all the people really wanted: enough to eat, and some kind of delightful entertainment. Giamo and his armies were gobbling up bits of other countries like hungry lions, but his subjects were content so long as they had bread and tournaments.”

Kel frowned again, thinking that over. In her experience, people cared about all kinds of things, and often very deeply. She had also found that people tended to underestimate anyone they considered beneath them. But she could see a grain of truth in the phrase as well — it was nice to be distracted sometimes from more serious concerns. But what serious concerns was he thinking of here?

“That strikes you as cynical, I suppose.”

“It does somewhat,” she admitted. “But I’m also trying to work out what you think the king is trying to distract us from. Last I checked, he hadn’t annexed any new territory.”

“Not like his grandfather did,” agreed Thom, setting down his glass. He poured more concentrated tea into it as he talked, followed by more hot water. “Roger prefers to make his conquests with marriage treaties. Pity that treaty with Tusaine fell through — he was doing his best to arrange a marriage between Gavain and one of King Ain’s granddaughters.”

Kel raised her eyebrows. Gavain hadn’t mentioned that. Then again, perhaps he hadn’t even known about it, depending on when the treaty had fallen apart. Besides, her friend had always kept most of himself to himself, just like her. If he had known about the treaty, he had probably decided not to mention it until his betrothal was a sure thing.

“Roger started in Hill Country,” Thom continued, as he stirred his tea, “and did it so deftly I didn’t even realize what he was doing until the third child was born. Gavain isn’t the name of some long-dead king, you know. He’s named for Gavain of Eldorne, one of the queen’s more notable ancestors. The hero of some battle against the Tusaine a hundred years ago, or thereabouts. Of course, his mother’s side of the family was Tusaine; I believe they still burn him in effigy over there.” He took a sip of his tea. “How much do you know about Hill Country?”

“Not very much.” The Shang Wildcat had given them a number of lessons in the history and culture of the region over the summer — just enough lessons for Kel to grasp that it would take a great deal more of them to really understand Hill Country.

“Surely you’ve noticed at least that the hill folk tend to make other Tortallans nervous. They look more or less like the rest of us, you see, but they retain their own language and customs. Many of the rulers before Roger tried very hard to assimilate them — get the nobility to punish commoners for speaking Hurdik, that sort of thing. But the region’s a tinderbox, and I’m not just referring to their never-ending droughts. They’ve always been a little closer to rebellion than the rest of us.”

Kel nodded slowly. There had been quite a lot of rebellions in Hill Country throughout the centuries, against the local nobility or the crown itself. Eda Bell had mentioned several of them in passing, almost as though she considered them a matter of course.

“Part of the problem is the nobility.” Thom paused, frowning off into space for a moment, as though remembering hours and hours of Tortallan history lessons. “The nobility in border country are often a bit . . . funny about their loyalty to the Crown, aren’t they? Not all of them, mind you, but enough of them. That’s particularly true in Hill Country, where the nobility has been intermarrying with the Marenite nobility for generations — and then the Tusaine nobility, after western Maren broke off to form Tusaine. Not to mention the local folk and the Bazhir, whose lands are so close to theirs.”

She nodded again. “And the border there has shifted a few times, hasn’t it?”

“Oh, certainly. It’s one of our national pastimes now, squabbling over the edges of Hill Country with Tusaine. And with Barzun, before we gobbled them up, too. We just adore fighting over that region. You’d think the Drell River contained pure gold instead of plain water, the way we bicker over it.”

“Do you think anything’s improved there, now that there’s a queen from Hill Country?” She recalled something else that Eda Bell had once told her, that she’d returned to Tortall to meet the Eldorne queen.

He appeared to be thinking that over. “Are the hill folk less likely to rebel? Perhaps. I can tell you for certain that Roger’s pleased the nobility there, between Delia and Alex. They got tired of us calling them hill barbarians despite their families being in the Book of Gold or whatnot. The Bazhir might have been somewhat mollified as well — or at least Alex’s mother’s tribe was, one hopes. We certainly don’t need any more desert wars.”

“The King’s Champion?” Kel guessed.

Thom smiled wryly. “Yes, I suppose you know him by his ceremonial title. I shared a cabin with him on the voyage to Carthak, when we traveled there with the embassy, so I’m afraid he’s lost his grandeur for me. Anyway, after bringing Hill Country into line, Roger turned his sights on Carthak and the Yamani Islands. I believe he’s hammering out a marriage treaty with the Copper Isles now as well, to sell poor little Gavain to King Oron’s cousin’s daughter, or something like that.”

“Maybe that will stop Copper Isles pirates from hitting the southwestern coast all the time.”

“It’s funny you should mention that, considering we were on the verge of war with Carthak when Roger started drawing up the treaty to make his daughter part of the imperial family there. What a family _that_ would have been, had Emperor Ozorne survived.” Thom glanced toward the window, where heavy clouds promised more snow to come. “He likes to extend a hand of friendship to his enemies, does our Roger.”

When he said that, Kel remembered the strangest thing that had happened over the past few days: Joren standing just outside the pages’ wing, looking like an ice prince against the pale winter sky and fallen snow, telling her that he wanted to be friends. Curious as to what Thom would make of it, she told him about their conversation. “He’s been pleasant enough since then,” she added. “He’ll say hello politely in the hallways, and not just to me. He’s very polite to my friends as well.” Except for Gavain, she thought. Joren kept a frosty distance from him, and although the prince swore he hadn’t said anything cruel to him recently, Kel saw the way Joren still couldn’t bear to look at him.

“How nice,” said Thom, raising an eyebrow. “One gloved hand extended to you, and the other concealing the knife.”

She’d had similar thoughts. “I just don’t see what his aim is. Unless he’s only trying to confuse me.” Another, darker thought occurred to her: she didn’t know for certain whether Joren’s father had recovered from his illness. It was possible that what she was witnessing here was grief.

“Nor do I, but I must say you draw a more subtle crowd of bullies than my sister did. Ralon of Malven had the decency to leave court after Alanna pounded the tar out of him, without trying any clever mind tricks on her first.”

He had told her some of that story before, relayed to him in letters from Lady Alanna when she was a page. “Does anyone know what happened to him, after he left? I don’t remember you mentioning anything about that.”

Thom shrugged. “Who can say? I did once ask Alex — the King’s Champion to you — if he ever catches himself glancing nervously over his shoulder when he’s away from court, near Malven or even further afield, just in case Ralon happens to remember who Page Alan’s closest friends were in those days. But where _do_ violent boys go, anyway? If not for having heard the story of Ralon of Malven, I’m sure I’d be stating confidently that they all go through page and squire training and then straight into the Chamber of the Ordeal, to become violent men.”

“Someone like that shouldn’t be a knight,” she said.

“Ideally, no. But in practice . . . Of course, that’s not to say you don’t find violent people in just about every line of work. Far from it.” He poured himself more tea; used to the taste, he had nearly drained his cup while she had sipped at hers. “Why, just yesterday I had a letter from one of my old masters in the City of the Gods. He’s concerned about one of the students there.”

Kel frowned inquisitively at him, and he met her eyes, with an expression of undisguised weariness. “I’m afraid that violent mages crop up all the time,” he said. “As far as they know, the lad’s done nothing they can expel him for, nothing even close to that, but old Si-cham’s concerned that he might.”

She thought of Joren again, wondering what he had been like as a child. Bullies didn’t come from nowhere; there must have been warning signs. She recalled her oldest brother Anders telling her that Conal had gained a reputation for pulling cats’ tails and bullying the servants’ children, in the years leading up to the day he had dangled her off the balcony.

“Do you happen to know anything about Joren’s family?” she asked. “I’d heard his father was ill recently. I wondered how he was doing.”

Thom frowned. “Oh, that’s right. I remember he fell ill at the congress this summer. I think he’s well enough now, though.”

“What happened at the congress, exactly?”

He gazed toward the fire for a few moments, looking thoughtful. “He fainted one day, just before lunch. We adjourned early, and when we returned in the afternoon, he was gone. I’m told he was put on bedrest for a week, and after the congress he returned to his fief. I’m afraid I don’t know anything more about it. I think he had a fever.”

Kel nodded. If Joren was sincere about his desire to be her friend, she supposed she could ask him about his father, but she didn’t trust him. Better to keep her distance, she thought.

“I just remembered,” said Thom, beginning to rummage in his desk. “I have a gift for you.”

She took another sip of her tea, still trying to decide whether she liked it.

Two weeks after she had confronted him about the gaudy knife the year before, Salma had brought her a package, wrapped in red silk like the ones Thom had left in her room. Inside the wrappings she had found a small box, containing a sheathed belt knife and a whetstone. The sheath, the hilt, and the bag containing the whetstone were all plain black leather, but the blade was one of the finest she had ever seen. In the note she’d found inside the box, Thom wrote that he’d asked an acquaintance for advice about knives, and that he hoped she liked this knife better than the first one. She’d wrestled with her feelings for a while after that, because she _did_ like the knife very much, just as she liked knowing that he wished her well and wanted her to succeed in her training. But she wasn’t entirely comfortable receiving such expensive gifts, and sometimes she got the sense that he wanted something from her in exchange that she couldn’t give him: for history to be rewritten.

He produced another box wrapped in red silk, which he passed across the desk to her with a smile. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, returning the smile.

“More tea?” he offered, as he watched her unwrap the gift.

Inside the box she found a pair of arm guards and shooting gloves, made of beautifully worked leather. For a moment she just ran her fingers over the arm guards wonderingly, before it sank in that she could take them out and try them on. They fit perfectly, as did the shooting gloves. She imagined he’d gotten her measurements from the palace tailors, because Lalasa hadn’t mentioned anyone approaching her to ask for them, and she would have mentioned it. Kel had told her about her visits to Thom’s office, and she still seemed skeptical of him.

“They’re wonderful,” she said, flexing and relaxing her forearms to test the fit of the arm guards in motion.

He smiled again, looking relieved. “Can you believe I only just learned the name for those things? I’d been calling them ‘archery gauntlets’ for years. My boyhood arms teacher would have called it a miracle.”

Sometimes it struck her how different his education had been from hers. “There are certainly worse things you could have called them.”

“You’re being very kind to me, an aging wizard who embarrasses himself regularly in front of knights. Asking questions like ‘Is there a difference between archery gauntlets and regular gauntlets?’” He brushed his thumb over the knife at his belt, the same amethyst-studded gold knife he had tried to give to her, which he had allowed her to return to him. “You know, Alex noticed me cutting my venison with this thing the other night, and he told me it was the worst knife he’d ever seen.”

She smiled at that image. “But you told me you’d enchanted it to keep its edge.”

“I certainly did. I told him that, and he nearly spit out his wine. Poor man,” he added, with a touch of irony. “Between me and the royal family, he puts up with so much.”

Kel leaned back in her chair, amused, and her gaze caught on one of the round glass orbs mounted on the wall to her right. Over time, she’d grown used to the strange lighting fixtures in Thom’s sitting room, but sometimes, when she sat there talking with him, it occurred to her how little she knew about magic. “Could you tell me about those lamps, my lord? I’ve seen crystals spelled to hold light before, but these seem different somehow.”

His face brightened. “Of course. They’re my own design. Made of glass, and filled with crystals particularly suited to holding light spells. I saw something very similar in the king’s palace apartment years ago, and then I tweaked the spells a little to make them self-powering.”

She frowned at him. “Self-powering?”

“Quite a lot of magic happens in these rooms. The air used to crackle a little bit sometimes, after a really big spell. Now the crystals sop up the excess, to keep their own spells going longer. Roger’s thrilled he doesn’t have to enchant his own lamps as often as he used to.”

“Did he invent them?”

Thom shook his head, and then leaned forward to explain, gesturing extravagantly as he spoke. “Mages at the Carthaki University started experimenting with earlier versions of lamps like these a couple of decades ago, when Roger was a young man living in Thak City. Longer-lasting versions of your basic crystal spelled to hold light. The trouble with spelled crystals, of course, has always been that they vary widely in quality, depending on who makes them. As I understand it, the Carthaki mages were interested in quality control there. Anyway, apparently Roger got a look at those Carthaki lamps and made his own. He experimented with a few different crystals, figured out which kinds held onto the light best, and then didn’t tell a soul in Carthak. Cunning old bastard,” he added fondly. “Of course, at some point after that, the Carthaki mages worked out which crystals worked best on their own, and when Ozorne came to power there he had the whole palace fitted with the new lights. Well — to be honest, Ozorne had a better version than Roger’s original design, but don’t tell the king I said that.”

Kel tried to imagine seeing these lamps everywhere she turned — walking down an ordinary corridor to her classes with them lining the walls on either side, perhaps even having one in her own room — and she couldn’t quite picture it. “Why don’t we have them all over the palace here?”

He was silent for a few moments, staring off into the space above her head. “Yes, why _don’t_ we?” he said at last, so quietly he might have been talking to himself alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One or two lines of dialogue were taken from _Page_. The question of how Stormwings braid their hair was raised during an episode of the podcast _Tortall Recall_ , without which I would have blissfully sailed through my life, never questioning Rikash's hairstyle even once.


	3. The Lamps

**454 H.E.**

Kel loved Midwinter in Tortall. When it came to grand decorations or parades, the Yamani Islanders favored other holidays. From time to time she still dreamt of cherry blossoms against a blue sky, or bright strips of paper tied to trees, or hot noodle soup eaten long after sundown as bells rang out through the cold, dark night. But the novelty of Midwinter in Corus delighted her, with its garlands of ivy and winter flowers, its blazing hearths and chandeliers, its heady smells of pine and frankincense.

Her parents and sisters were there over the week-long holiday, as they had been the year before. The first marriage treaty between Tortall and the Yamani Islands had collapsed when Princess Chisakami had died in an earthquake two summers ago, so Kel’s parents had cancelled their trip back to the Islands and remained in Corus to help the new ambassador draw up another treaty. Usually Kel only saw them from afar in the grand banquet hall, where they were often seated with the new Yamani ambassador and his lady. Over Midwinter last year, her friend Merric had been assigned to wait on the table where her sisters Adalia and Oranie sat. With her permanent assignment waiting on the arch-priestess of the Great Mother Goddess, Kel had only glimpsed them in passing. She didn’t expect to see much more of her family this Midwinter, at least not during the banquet itself, but she wanted them to be proud of her.

When the royal fanfare sounded, indicating that the king and queen had taken their places on the dais, Kel took a deep breath and walked out into the banquet hall carrying a finger bowl and towels. Her hair was neat, her clothes spotless; before leaving her room, she had double-checked her appearance in the mirror enough times to be sure of that.

Something had changed about the banquet hall. The light was brighter somehow, like sunlight. Just ahead of her, her friend Esmond slowed his steps, looking around as if bewildered, and she almost banged into him.

Amidst the holly and ivy adorning the walls, someone had put in elegant glass sconces, which glowed with a bright, steady light that she recognized. Kel glanced up, and saw that the candles that had once burned in the chandeliers had been switched out for thousands of little crystal orbs. She smiled slowly.

“Keep walking,” she murmured to Esmond. “We’re holding up the line.”

When she reached her post, she found Lord Thom sitting between the arch-priestess and his colleague from King’s University, Harailt of Aili. Lord Thom was gazing forlornly into his empty wine goblet. “The lamps are wonderful, my lord,” she told him quietly, as she offered him the finger bowl.

“Thank you. You’re one of the few who’s noticed, I think.” He rinsed his hands and dried them carefully. “That will change. Watch this.”

He waved a hand casually, and the room went dark. Kel heard a surprised murmur echo through the suddenly quieter banquet hall. Then a light appeared near the great oak doors leading out into the corridor, as one of the glass sconces to one side of them blazed like a small sun. After a moment, the lamp next to it lit up, and then the one next to that, and the one next to that, as though the light were jumping along the walls from lamp to lamp.

Kel’s post was close enough to the dais for her to see the king’s face break into a smile when the light reached him. At that moment, with his eyes bright with wonder, he looked like one of her nephews seeing an illusionist or a juggler for the first time. When all of the sconces were lit again, and the chandeliers blazed overhead, the king began to applaud.

His people joined in, and Lord Thom, still seated at the table, bowed to the king. “And they won’t start to dim over time,” he called, his voice ringing through the great hall. “I improved the spells again, Roger! When all our bones are dust, those lamps will still be shining.”

“Very well done,” said the king. “Subtle, yet a remarkable innovation.”

Thom beamed up at him. When Roger looked away, he sighed, his shoulders slumping suddenly. “Gods, I need a drink,” he murmured.

Over the coming weeks, the lamps began appearing in corridors throughout the palace. The first time Kel’s vision of walking to class down a hallway lined with them came true, she was with two of her friends among the second-years, Owen and Gavain. The prince looked unsurprised to see the glass sconces. “Father’s been talking about these since Midwinter,” he remarked. “Jon says he wants to put one on every street corner in Corus. The Lamplighters’ Guild is horrified by them, though at least the glassmakers are pleased.”

“I like them, too,” said Owen. “If I had one in my room, I could read after dark without straining my eyes.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to read until your eyes start to hurt,” said Gavain with concern, and Owen shrugged.

“They _would_ put the Lamplighters’ Guild out of business, wouldn’t they?” said Kel, who hadn’t thought about that before.

“Only if he actually manages to put them all over Corus. I suspect this is one case where Father’s ambition will exceed the constraints of reality.” He gazed at the nearest lamp for a few breaths, looking thoughtful. “Then again, they reduce the dangers of having torches and oil lamps everywhere — the accidental fires, the inhalation of smoke and other noxious fumes — as well as the general grime. The Lamplighters’ Guild aside, I wonder if this will end up being another example of Father doing the right thing for the wrong reasons.”

When Kel glanced at him curiously, he explained, “It’s something my mother said once — that throughout his reign, Father has often done the right thing for entirely the wrong reasons. His pride will tell him something’s a good idea, and then it ends up being an improvement for the kingdom. I’m paraphrasing, of course,” he added, looking vaguely embarrassed he had brought it up at all.

“I’m glad we can at least turn them off now,” he went on after a moment. “Father had installed the lamps all over the royal wing before Lord Alexander pointed out that only the mages could turn them off.”

“How _do_ you turn them off?” asked Owen.

“You have to ask nicely.” Gavain paused, turning to address the nearest lamp. “Please stop shining.”

The lamp flickered and, after a moment, dimmed slightly.

“Please,” he repeated more insistently, and at last the lamp went dark. Gavain turned back to Owen and Kel. “You have to be firm with them, but they’ll listen to people who aren’t my father and Lord Thom now. All right,” he said to the lamp, “you can turn back on now.”

The sconce blazed to life again, more brightly than it had before.

By mid-February, the palace was full of the new lamps. The brighter light made it easier to map lower floors from an upper gallery, on evenings when Kel faced her fear of heights indoors; she couldn’t decide whether that was a recommendation for or against the lamps. As time went on, she got used to them, and they began to feel unremarkable.

**455 H.E.**

When the wards all along the northern walls of the palace failed, Thom felt it. He didn’t immediately recognize the queasy twist of his stomach for what it was, though, because he was preoccupied with the question of how best to kick a man out of his rooms so he could get back to the book he’d been reading. He had found that if you simply said “Get out,” men often didn’t want to return, which was helpful if you didn’t want them to and less helpful if you did.

After a moment, the little ball of light solved the problem for him. It came flitting through his bedroom wall and then hovered, like a tiny sun, above his head.

“What’s that?” asked the knight, as Thom screwed his eyes shut and pressed his face against the other man’s chest, trying to hide.

He sighed. “That, my brawny friend, is a royal summons.”

The ball of light danced in closer and, to his discomfort, began to speak with Roger’s voice. “Get to the northeastern edge of the curtain wall now.” Thom could hear muted footsteps as well, as though the king were striding quickly through the palace corridors as he spoke.

“It’s nearly midnight,” Thom pointed out. Nearly midnight, and early March, which made it one of the least advantageous times he could imagine for a stroll along the palace wall.

“Be that as it may, this is an emergency. Get there _now_.”

“Perhaps I should go,” whispered the knight, who had gone slightly pale.

“I’m busy,” Thom told the ball of light.

There was a pause. “Doing what?” asked Roger.

A reasonable person would probably have replied, “Sleeping,” but Thom knew from long experience that neither he nor Roger were reasonable people. Frowning, he thought back to earlier that day, in the practice courts. Thom didn’t use the practice courts for their intended purpose, but he did enjoy strolling past them every so often, to see what the bruisers in armor got up to. “I think his name is Sir Hildrec,” he said, after a moment’s reflection.

The knight rolled away from him and scrambled to his feet, a look of horror upon his face. Thom rested his head on folded arms, drowsily watching him get dressed. That was worse than something like “Get out” would have been, much worse. He only hoped he’d remembered the man’s name correctly.

“Well, get rid of him,” said Roger, “and meet me outside the northeastern watchtower before the palace comes crumbling down around our ears.”

Sir Hildrec froze when he heard that, turning back to stare fearfully at the orange ball of light.

“He’s exaggerating,” Thom assured him in a stage whisper. To Roger he said, “All right, all right, I’m on my way. Just give me a couple of minutes to get dressed.”

“No,” said Roger. “You’re not just going to vanish in the corridor and then reappear on the palace wall — you’re going to walk. I don’t want you depleting any of your magic. I’ll give you twelve minutes.”

Thom groaned. “Fine, fine.”

Ten minutes later, he was stalking along the top of the wall toward the king. Roger stood glowering out into the darkness, his robes swirling around him in the night wind. “How could the wards have failed?”

“I have no idea,” said Thom, “considering it happened about fifteen minutes ago and I just got here.”

“Do you see how close the forest comes to the palace wall?” Roger swept his arm in front of him, but the gesture was lost on Thom, as it was far too dark to see any of the Royal Forest. In the torchlight, he could see the king beside him and the flagstones beneath their feet, and that was all. “Attackers would be upon us before we’d have any idea they were there. We don’t even _have_ a curtain wall to the north because my honored ancestors decided they wanted another couple of gods-cursed ballrooms.”

Roger drew out an ornate silver hand mirror, which he’d concealed in the sleeve of his robes, and glared down at whatever he saw there. “It looks as though the magic’s being leeched away by something, but for the life of me I can’t figure out _what_ . . . Who could have done this?”

Ignoring him, Thom let his own magic drift out like mist. It seeped into the cold stone of the palace walls, the empty spaces of the rooms within, the trees along the edge of the Royal Forest. Where it drifted, it found the tattered remains of the magic that had blanketed the northern end of the palace, a riot of different colors, an intricate tapestry of spells both old and new. He let his power sweep further afield, extending deeper into the palace and across the grounds.

When the answer hit him, it was so obvious he could have laughed.

He blinked his eyes open, and found Roger looking intently at him. “It’s these light spells. They’re drawing power away from the other spells in the palace, to keep the new lamps glowing.”

The king frowned. “But they don’t do that in my rooms, or in yours. They only sop up the excess magic.”

“Exactly. Excess, because you and I are constantly working magic and refreshing our protective spells. And that was on a _much_ smaller scale. We put up too many lamps elsewhere in the palace, too quickly, and now we’re paying for it.”

“But you _told_ me —”

Admitting he’d made a mistake always made his teeth ache. “They store power in reserve,” he cut in. “It takes effort for them to turn off, so they’re — burning through it faster than I’d accounted for.”

Roger shut his eyes for a moment, and Thom had the distinct impression that he was counting to ten. “Why did it start in the northern wing?” he asked calmly, after opening his eyes again.

Thom fought to keep the tone of his voice apologetic and vaguely academic, instead of just sounding annoyed that he’d been dragged out of bed in the middle of the night to come up with answers that Roger could have arrived at on his own. They were both accomplished mages, after all. With a feeling of discomfort, he realized that the king had become dependent on him over the years, and he had encouraged it. He suppressed a shudder at that thought. Wasn’t that what he had wanted, when he’d first arrived at the palace all those years ago? To be indispensable? To survive, even flourish, at Roger’s court, no matter the cost?

“The spells there were already in need of reinforcement,” he said, feeling not triumphant so much as cold and tired. “Since they’d weakened, and we installed the lamps without strengthening them first, the lamps finished them off.”

“Finished them off,” Roger repeated softly. “Can we repair all the necessary spells without removing the lamps?”

Thom chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, considering that. It was the middle of the night; people liked the lamps to be off in most parts of the palace, or at least dimmed to a soft twilit gray. That was the problem, really. He had taken his previous light spells apart and put them back together to make them more efficient, to feed off far smaller amounts of magic than they had before; he had, curse him, designed those lamps to _want_ to keep shining. “Removing them would take unnecessary time,” he agreed. “The trouble is, they use the least amount of power at near-maximum brightness. If I begin now, I’m likely to wake half the palace.”

“I see. Of course, the longer you wait to repair the protective spells, the more likely we are to be attacked by hurroks in the night.”

“True.” The wind, Thom hoped, drowned out his weary sigh. He could encircle the lamps with a veil of darkness, but that would take even more time. “I can work from outside in, and shore up the wards on the palace grounds first. If you get me five or six other mages to assist me, I think we can have everything fixed by midnight tomorrow.”

A smile broke out across Roger’s face. “Whatever you need.”

Thom nodded distractedly, beginning to make plans. “Some tea would be nice, too. Strong black tea, with plenty of honey.” He watched Roger signal to one of the guards keeping watch along the curtain wall. “Out of curiosity, what were you envisioning earlier, when you said that the palace was going to come crumbling down around our ears?”

“Catapults,” said Roger.

“Ah.” He watched the guard walk away, hopefully in search of a servant who could bring him tea.

The king was silent for a moment, gazing out again toward the Royal Forest. “Sir Hildrec of _Meron_?”

Thom shrugged. “ _I_ don’t know. He didn’t exactly draw his family tree for me.” He was fairly certain it had been Hildrec, or perhaps Hilyard. One of the two, surely. “Hildrec of Meron,” he said hesitantly. “Tall fellow, about your height? Thirtyish, dark blond hair? Ears that stick out slightly? Bit of an idiot?”

“I’m fairly certain we’re thinking of the same man,” said Roger. “But then, you think everyone’s an idiot.”

“That’s true.” He hoped that Roger wasn’t about to start volunteering information about his own love life. He’d heard plenty of rumors about it over the years, of course, some of which he could even verify. These days, most of them involved the Marenite ambassador’s wife. Thom had no desire to become involved in an international incident by learning any concrete details about that.

“I suppose you were taking a stroll among the practice courts when you met him? Admiring the view?” There was a lascivious undertone to Roger’s voice that, in combination with the sleep deprivation and encroaching headache, made Thom feel fifteen years younger.

“Well, I do love a stroll,” he replied, dimly aware that Alanna would have called him a liar to his face had she heard him say that. “To be honest, I’d more or less forgotten about him by the time he surreptitiously knocked on my door. I was busy reading.” Yawning, he thought wistfully of the book that Sir Hildrec had interrupted, a treatise on the writings of Prosper Sunstone, and then he thought of his own bed, warm and inviting.

Thom sighed again. It was going to be a very long night.

Every year, it struck Kel as remarkable how quickly the two-month summer holiday seemed to pass by. The bright spot of it this year was a fortnight spent with her parents in Port Caynn, who had wanted time alone with Kel now that Adalia and Oranie were both successfully betrothed.

They were picnicking on the beach one afternoon, under a white awning to keep off the sun, when Kel asked her mother what it was like teaching the crown prince Yamani.

Lady Ilane smiled. “He asks so many questions that it’s hard to keep to the subject at hand. I’ve had to ban him from speaking Common for the majority of each lesson.”

Kel laughed at the image of her mother ordering the prince around. “What sort of questions?”

“He’s very curious about what it was like to live there. Which is all well and good, but his father asked me to teach him the language, so that’s what I’ve been trying to focus on.” She scooped some more powdered green tea into her cup, and whisked it into a froth. “Do you know the prince well?”

“Not very well. He seems nice enough, and we talk sometimes, but I wouldn’t call him a friend exactly.”

Her mother frowned slightly, as though puzzled. “Well, he certainly spoke highly of you.” She blew on her tea to cool it, gazing out at the gleaming blue water. “I wish I had a little more time to teach him Yamani, but I am looking forward to when Princess Shinkokami and her ladies arrive.”

“So am I,” said Kel. “Though I doubt I’ll be able to see much of them until after the big exams are over.”

One more year, she thought, remembering how her heart had pounded when Neal had reminded her of that fact, as they’d watched the new squires take their places on the other side of the mess hall after the big exams that spring. One more year of seeing Neal and her other page friends every day. One more year with Peachblossom — unless she was chosen by a desk knight, because Stefan Groomsman had been kind enough to promise her that he’d make sure she stayed with her horse, if her knight-master was one who kept close to the palace. She knew it was a kindness, but it stung anyway. She didn’t want a desk knight, and she didn’t want a different horse either.

“Are you frightened of the exams?” asked her mother.

Kel shook her head. “The worst part is having people watch. Well, that and the judges don’t seem very friendly. But I’ve sat in on the big exams, and the questions on classwork and showing your physical training just aren’t that hard. Neal’s more scared than I am,” she added, before biting into a sausage roll. “He’s afraid we’re going to be a sneeze late, and have to do this year — or worse, the whole thing — over again.”

Lady Ilane looked amused. “I shouldn’t think you’d be late on such a day.”

“Nor do I, but that’s Neal for you.”

When they got back to the house where they were staying while in Port Caynn, to rest and change before supper, Kel found Lalasa sitting on a bench beside the big window in her room, working on a dress for one of the queen’s ladies. Lady Cythera of Naxen, she recalled, eyeing the blue silk spilling over Lalasa’s lap. Kel had been so proud of her, the first time a noblewoman who wasn’t one of her sisters had commissioned Lalasa to sew for her. “That’s very pretty — that embroidery you’re doing around the neckline there.”

Lalasa smiled up at her. “Thank you, my lady. I expect I’ll be finished by the time we get back to Corus.”

Kel raised her eyebrows, impressed by how quickly she worked. As she opened the wardrobe, surveying the clothes she’d brought, Lalasa asked her, “Did you have a nice time at the beach?”

“I did.” After lunch, as the sun sank lower in the sky, she and her parents had spent an hour walking along the edge of the water, looking for interesting shells and watching Shiro chase the receding waves. Now she watched Lalasa’s needle dart through the silk in her lap, like a silver fish darting through the water. “I know you have the dress to work on, but you could take the rest of the afternoon off, if you wanted.”

Lalasa’s attention was on her embroidery. “Thank you, my lady, but I’d rather stay in. I don’t much care for the seaside.”

Her village had been burned by raiders from the Copper Isles, Lalasa had told her a few months back. It must have been near the coast, thought Kel, to have been vulnerable to pirates. “We’ll be back home soon enough,” she assured her, feeling a bit guilty now for having brought Lalasa to Port Caynn.

Her maid smiled again. “I admit, I’ll be glad for it. I’ve missed Tian and Uncle Gower.”

Kel remembered the way that Lalasa had once preferred to stay in her rooms, back when she had first started working for her, with only Shiro and the sparrows for company. Now she was carving out a life of her own, with dreams and goals and true friends. “One or two more big projects, like this dress you’re making for Lady Cythera, and you should have enough to afford your own shop,” said Kel. “The way things are going, you might be looking at properties while I’m getting ready to take the big exams.”

“I hope so, my lady. It would be nice to have bought something by the time you go on progress with your knight-master.”

Kel smiled, wishing she had Lalasa’s confidence that a knight would take her into his service before the Grand Progress started next summer.

After supper, Kel liked to sit with her father in the library, talking or just reading together in the quiet. Usually they drank tea together; sometimes he had wine instead. She liked having this time alone with him, just as she and her mother had their morning glaive practice. That night they drank green tea, and Baron Piers listened with interest while Kel told him about a battle she’d studied during one of her last Sunday night combat tactics lessons that spring. It was a battle led by Neal’s famous grandfather, Emry of Haryse, during the conquest of Barzun.

The conversation reminded her of something she’d been thinking about, on and off, since that Sunday night lesson. “After learning more about the conquest,” she said, “I can see why they might resent us. Why the south might resent the people in Corus, that is.”

“You’ve heard about tensions there, I see,” said her father. “Personally, I’d be surprised if there’s a rebellion in southern Tortall anytime soon. Regardless of how bitter many of the nobility there might feel, I doubt it will come to war.”

“Why not?”

“They’re impoverished, and they know it. They might talk of rebellion in Pearlmouth and Barzun City behind closed doors, but none of them are reckless enough to do much about it, even with the support of the Bazhir tribes. Now, if one or two of our neighbors supported them, like Carthak or Tusaine, there _might_ be a war, but that doesn’t strike me as very likely.”

She thought that over. “I suppose Tusaine wouldn’t go to war with us again so soon, not after what happened last time.”

“And Emperor Kaddar is preparing to marry Princess Jessamine in three years’ time,” he agreed. “No, I think we’re safe on that front, at least for the time being. Tell me, have you studied the Battle of Brightleigh in your lessons?”

Kel shook her head.

“That’s an interesting one,” said her father, and he began to tell her all about it.

Her mother was going to drive her mad.

“I well understand the temptations of court,” said the queen, as Jessamine held out her arms obediently, to allow Lady Cythera’s new dressmaker to take measurements for the sleeves of her Midwinter gown. “I’m only telling you to be careful — especially after this Grand Progress starts, because that is the sort of event that can easily make mincemeat of a girl’s reputation.”

“How so?” asked Jess, most of her attention on the courtyard outside the window. It was beginning to snow lightly again; by this time of year, the City of the Gods would usually be covered in snow, and the lake in the convent garden might already have frozen over. If she were still there, perhaps she’d be skating on it with her friends right now. She sighed.

“Camps,” said her mother darkly. “Everyone will be crammed together inside somebody else’s castle or in tents outside of it. That is the sort of environment that breeds new love affairs, and breaks up old ones.”

Jess fought the urge to roll her eyes. “None of that concerns me, Mama. _I’m_ betrothed.”

She glanced away from the window, watching her mother’s perfect eyebrows ascend. “To a man you have never met, whom you are not even set to meet for nearly another three years, so that your father could secure an alliance with Carthak. Trust me, my dear, you’ll forget all about that betrothal when some handsome fellow is standing right in front of you — real flesh and blood instead of letters from across the sea.” Delia turned to the dressmaker, who had finished with her measuring tape, and smiled sweetly. “About two weeks, you said?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” murmured the dressmaker, a pretty young woman with light brown skin and a round face. The queen had taken so little notice of her, during the entire process of taking measurements, that Jess was half convinced the girl had the Gift, and was employing some clever invisibility spell that Jess didn’t know yet.

“Marvelous.” She nodded a dismissal to the girl before sitting down at the table near the fireplace with a graceful sweep of her skirts. “Whatever you do,” she said to Jess, as she poured herself a cup of tart hibiscus tea, “do not risk your reputation. Your good reputation is your currency in this world.” She patted the seat beside hers. “Tea?”

Suppressing another sigh, Jess sat down next to her. The priestesses in the City of the Gods had watched her closely, but they had done it in a distant, impersonal sort of way, almost as though she were just another student. When her mother kept a close eye on her, it felt keenly personal.

“Besides, they’re said to be rather conservative in Carthak,” Delia continued, pouring her some tea as well. Her mother was mad for hibiscus tea, which Jess understood to be a Hill Country custom. She didn’t really care for it.

Her mother blew on her tea to cool it. “Kaddar may be more progressive in some respects than his predecessors, but I have no doubt he expects to marry a virgin. The vast majority of noblemen do. If you’re lucky enough to find one who doesn’t — trust me, dear, he’ll have other faults.”

This was the last conversation she wanted to have with her mother. I could just agree with her, thought Jess, and maybe escape from it early. Just nod and smile. She considered that seriously for a moment, and then her natural tendency to argue won out. “I don’t know why anyone cares about that sort of thing anyway. We _have_ charms to prevent pregnancy.”

Delia frowned. “Even the most expensive of those have been known to fail. A chain breaks, for example, or another spell interferes with it.” She sipped her tea, falling silent for long enough that Jess had time to hope she was done talking about this. “Never bed a powerful mage anywhere near his workroom — or your workroom, for that matter — if you’re relying on one of those charms.”

Three years, thought Jess. Three mortal years of being trapped at court and on progress with her mother, before she sailed off to Carthak to marry a man she had never met, except through an exchange of polite letters. “Oh, is that why Jon was born less than eight months after your wedding?” she asked innocently.

Her mother’s face grew slightly paler. “Some babies are born quite early, that’s all. We thanked the gods that he was healthy.”

Jess rested her chin on her hand, trying to look thoughtful instead of faintly disgusted by the turn the conversation had taken. “Of course, you were already betrothed at that point, and that’s almost the same as being married. So I don’t really understand what the problem is.”

Even as she said it, she thought she could see the vague aura of scandal and calamity that would have plagued her parents, when she recalled what she’d learned about her father’s first year as king: a series of untimely deaths, a country in mourning, a quiet betrothal followed by a relatively somber coronation and then an extravagant, slightly rushed wedding. Not for the first time, she wondered whether there was something here that nobody was telling her. A family curse, perhaps. Even among royalty, it was downright odd for so many relatives to die in quick succession like that. She had no closely related cousins on her father’s side, no grandparents or aunts and uncles, and that had always struck her as rather unfair. Her mother had plenty of family; her father stood alone, orphaned by years of tragedy.

“It is still easier to break off a betrothal than a marriage, at least among our sort,” her mother replied tersely. “Commoners can break off a marriage any time they like, but we are held to a higher standard.”

More evidence that it would have been better to have been born an ordinary goatherd than a princess. “Well, I’m only fourteen. That’s too young to be bedding anybody.”

“You may change your mind soon,” said her mother knowingly.

“I doubt it. I’ve met a few of Jon’s friends. I’d rather kiss a spidren than any of them.”

Her mother smiled. “I believe I had the same thought when I first came to court. Squires, ugh. But then you turn your attention to gallant older fellows, and they break your heart. You need to ensure that men respect you, Jessamine. Respect is better than passion. You can’t build a marriage on passion alone.”

“They won’t break my heart,” Jess assured her. “It’s unbreakable.”

Her mother’s smile faded. “I’m only trying to protect you, darling. I wish you’d listen to me.”

“I _was_ listening. But I have a lot of reading to finish before my lesson with Father, so I’d better go now.”

It was a slight exaggeration. She had only a page left of the chapter her father had asked her to read; when she finished that, she flopped down on her bed, enjoying the solitude of her room. She’d had her own bedroom at the convent, too, but she had always taken that for granted. Here at court, her room was a sanctuary.

Her maid had left a letter from the emperor on her desk. Curious, she got to her feet again to retrieve it. In Corus it took less time for Kaddar’s letters to reach her; this one was dated just over a month ago, and it still smelled faintly of sandalwood.

> _Dearest cousin,_
> 
> _You have asked me what the weather is like here. Today is beastly hot for October, though it’s beginning to cool down now that the sun has set. I expect the weather will have improved by the time this letter reaches you, however, and that when you arrive in Thak City, you’ll be pleased by how mild our winters are. I am sitting outside in the garden as I write this. There is a breeze blowing in from the coast, and I can hear howler monkeys in the menagerie._
> 
> _I enjoyed reading about your study of the conversion of one type of energy to another. There is an engineer here at the university who has been experimenting with using wind energy to recharge a variety of different kinds of spells, whose work may interest you. As to my own research, I have made some progress with the drought-resistant plants I described in my last letter. Unfortunately I have had to put any further experiments on hold again. I imagine that by now you will have heard about the rebellion in Yamut. Their harvests this year suffered greatly from late summer storms that blew in from the Eastern Sea, and now the governor is struggling to quell riots in the capital city. It is my hope that enough grain can be shipped there from Maren and Sarain to cool their tempers before Midwinter. The seers have informed me that Yamut can expect a fairly warm winter this year, which will assist with rebuilding in flooded areas._
> 
> _I’ve been hearing reports that during the rebellion, a trio of warrior women from across the Inland Sea saved the lives of the governor’s children. I’m told that they were guests at his home when the fighting broke out; one of them is evidently his lady’s distant cousin from Sarain. When order is fully restored in Yamut, I intend to invite these warrior ladies to visit Thak City. It all sounds like a rather fantastical story to me, and I would like to hear it from them in person._
> 
> _Has the Yamani delegation arrived yet? If they are not yet in Corus by the time this letter reaches you, I suspect they will at least have landed on Tortallan soil. I look forward to reading your account of their presentation at court, and of the imminent Grand Progress. I was also interested to learn that Lord Thom of Trebond will be tutoring you in magic while you are living at your father’s court. He is something of a legend at our university here. It is said that during the six-month period he resided in Carthak about eight years ago, he ventured out of his rooms only twice. I suspect this is just a tale, because when he visited the palace later with the Tortallan delegation, he seemed quite normal, but it is a tale we like to tell here._
> 
> _Until next I hear from you, dear lady, I remain very truly yours,_
> 
> _Kaddar_

It was nearly time to visit her father. Jess set down the letter reluctantly, intending to reread it later when she had the chance, before she composed a reply. Kaddar’s letters had grown more interesting over time. She wanted to hear more about the warrior ladies in particular, though she doubted he’d have more information about them until they arrived in Thak City. Maybe they would still be there when she arrived for the wedding.

Her father kept his workroom in his ducal apartment, at the far end of the royal wing. Once she had asked him why he still lived in the apartment, when the next Duke of Conté would be Gavain’s son, or even Sandy’s if Gavain had no sons, now that their father was king. He had replied, quite sensibly, that the ducal apartment was where his magical workroom had been for years, and he hadn’t the desire or the time to go to the effort of relocating everything that was in there. “Some of those items would have to be very carefully warded,” he had told her, “before I so much as attempted to move them to the next room, let alone elsewhere in the palace. You’ll find as you grow older, Jess, that moving is usually more far trouble than it’s worth.”

She had only glimpsed the inside of his workroom a few times, before she’d left for the City of the Gods, but she suspected he was right about the effort it would take to move everything in it. Still, she was developing another theory about the ducal apartment, since returning to the palace: that he preferred to keep his distance from her mother. Jess wasn’t sure whether things had changed between her parents while she was away, or if she simply hadn’t noticed the rift before, but there was a coolness between them now that made her uneasy.

The door to her father’s sitting room was located at the top of a short flight of stairs. She knocked sharply on it, in case he was in his dressing room or his workroom. “Father?”

Feeling the wards vanish, Jess pushed open the door. Her father stood beside his desk, gazing down at a thick leather-bound book that lay open upon it. When he glanced up, she curtsied to him, and then joined him at the desk.

He had seemed to grow shorter since she’d returned from the City of the Gods. Before the convent, her father had always looked very much like a god to her: tall and handsome, always smiling warmly, laughing often with the rich voice of a king. These past couple of weeks, she had been surprised to discover that her brother Jon was starting to catch up to him in height, that her father’s hair and beard were starting to turn gray around the edges, and that her mother’s voice seemed slightly shrill to her ears now, instead of sweet and musical as it once had.

“Good afternoon, Jess,” said her father, smiling down at her. “I believe that a letter arrived for you earlier today.” He looked tired, she thought. Had he always looked so tired?

“From the emperor,” she replied, pushing away those thoughts. “I’ve already read it. He sounded less stiff and formal in it than he used to. It turns out he actually has a sense of humor.”

“I remember you saying that you suspected his clerks were writing all his letters for him.”

“Either the clerks are on strike, or he’s finally warming up to me.”

Her father chuckled. “I knew he would eventually.” He closed the book on the desk, and she recognized the title, having skimmed through it in one of the convent libraries before riding south. It was about using light energy to power other kinds of magic. She wondered whether he’d let her borrow it at some point. “Have you read the chapter on protective spells, as I asked?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Wonderful.” He stepped away from the desk, into the open center of the room. Orange light like fire began to lick his feet, climbing up his legs, his arms, his torso, until it shimmered over every inch of his body. “Break this one, then.”

She frowned. “Won’t I hurt you?”

“Don’t worry about that, my dear. There are other spells layered beneath it. Go ahead.”

As a very young child, Jess had called up small windstorms every time she was angry, without meaning to. Once, shortly before they’d sent her away to the City of the Gods for school, she had accidentally summoned a gale so powerful that only her father and Lord Thom, working in concert, had been able to stop it from damaging the palace. Since then she had learned discipline, but even now she often felt a breeze stir her hair when she drew upon her magic. For that reason, she usually wore it braided and pinned up in a coronet, though some of her hair always managed to slip out. She felt the loose hair stirring now as air moved, cool and gentle, over the back of her neck, as magic spilled down her arm. She pointed at her father. Reddish orange fire, almost vermilion in color, shot from her hand to shatter against his translucent shield.

“Try again,” he said kindly. “We’ll keep trying until you get it.” He cocked his head slightly, smiling at her. “You have power the average person cannot even begin to fathom, Jess. You must learn how to wield it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ours is a high and lonely destiny, Jess," to paraphrase _The Magician's Nephew_.
> 
> Some dialogue was taken from _Page_.
> 
> "Sir Hildrec," you may be saying, "isn't that the guy who slapped Kel with his glove right after her bird died?" Listen, it's already been established by Word of God that Thom has highly questionable taste in men.


	4. The Yamani Ladies

**455 H.E.**

A few days before the Yamani delegation was set to arrive, Thom of Trebond invited Kel to tea in his office again. He had wanted to see how the Yamanis brewed their tea, and watched with interest as she whisked the green powder into a froth. “Almost the color of new spring leaves,” he remarked poetically, as he accepted a cup from her. After bobbing his head in a semblance of the bow she offered him, he took a sip and grimaced. “Strong.”

“It takes some getting used to. I grew up on this, so I love it.”

He nodded. “Sometimes I find myself craving pickled herring. I don’t even _like_ pickled herring, but when you’re a child in the far northwest . . . Well, the delegation is almost upon us. Looking forward to seeing them again?”

“Yes, though I don’t know whether I know anyone in the princess’s party yet.”

“If you’re lucky, next summer you’ll be chosen by a knight toward whom Roger feels only neutral or mildly positive feelings. That wouldn’t hurt your own career, and it would keep you away from the Grand Progress most of the time.”

Kel raised her eyebrows. “Not looking forward to the progress?”

He sighed. “I don’t care much for parties or parades. But it’s not just that. Let me assure you, as one of the king’s favorite playthings — you don’t want to be too much in his favor.”

“I doubt I’m in much danger of that,” she said, thinking of her probationary year. “But I’ll keep your advice in mind. Are you doing anything yourself to prepare for the delegation?” His warning about the king just now put her in mind of the task he’d been given the previous Midwinter, of contributing some kind of magical entertainment to the festivities, and how much stress it had caused him.

He leaned back in his chair, smiling broadly. “The Yamanis are apparently sending some of their brightest young mages, and Roger’s planning on hosting a few parties for them. He’s asked me to be on my best behavior. Do you know what he said exactly? He said, ‘Try not to talk to anyone for very long, Thom.’ It was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me. I made him say it again so I could savor it.”

She tried to hide a smile at that, and quickly gave up. “Prince Gavain says the crown prince is getting very nervous. I suppose he’s one of the few who’d be able to tell.”

Thom looked thoughtful at that. “It’s true, Jon isn’t the kind of person who’s very open about his feelings, at least not when he’s feeling down. He wears a smile like a mask; he’s like his father in that way. I’d be shocked if he _wasn’t_ nervous, marrying a girl from some faraway land whom he’s never met before. He’s been raised for it, of course, but until now it’s always seemed like something far off in the future.”

Kel supposed she was lucky, in a way, to have no marriage prospects. A marriage like Prince Jonathan faced now would have been a complication she didn’t need.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” said Thom, opening a desk drawer and beginning to fish around in it. “I have something for you. An early Midwinter present, of sorts.” He produced a small box wrapped in bright silk.

“Thank you, sir,” she replied, curious. It was far too small to be any kind of armor or weaponry. More bruise balm, perhaps?

When she opened the box, she discovered to her surprise that it contained jewelry: a small, red crystal pendant on a silver chain. Kel lifted it from the box to examine the stone in the lamplight. Near the cap, where silver wire twined across the face of the crystal, it looked like plain quartz, slightly cloudy but otherwise uncolored. A little further down, veins of dark red began to swirl through the stone. The base of the pendant looked more like a garnet than clear quartz.

“At first glance, not as practical as some of your other gifts,” he went on, as she studied the pendant. “But it’s actually a protective amulet.”

“It’s very pretty. Protective how?”

He smiled, all smug satisfaction. “Enemy mages are going to have a very difficult time with you. If you’re wearing that, you’ll be able to see through even the most elaborate battlefield illusions. And they won’t be able to see into your mind, or ensnare it to make you do their bidding.”

Kel whistled, very impressed. “Thank you indeed. Would it still work if I had it in my pocket or belt purse? The chain might end up being a problem in a fight.”

“Ah, fair point. There’s no reason why it shouldn’t, but we can test that out if you like. I was going to suggest you keep it hidden under your tunic anyway, so mages and thieves don’t notice it.”

She took his words to heart, and started wearing the pendant under her shirt to her afternoon classes and evening banquet service. If it prevented any illusions from fooling her, or any attempts at mind control, she didn’t notice, but it was a nice reminder that Lord Thom wished her well.

Three days later, on a cold, rainy Tuesday night, the door to the mess hall opened during the pages’ late supper, and a bright figure walked into the middle of the room. The pages fell silent so quickly that Kel, turning to see who had entered, thought it must have been the king, but she was wrong.

The stranger was a young Yamani noblewoman, dressed in cream-colored silk patterned with maple leaves. Her slippers whispered on the floor as she approached the dais, where Lord Wyldon and Sir Paxton of Nond were seated. Placing her palms on her thighs, she bowed to them. “Please excuse me,” she said, in a clear voice that rang out through the mess hall. “I come at the request of my mistress, Her Imperial Highness, Princess Shinkokami.”

Lord Wyldon got up from the table and stepped off the dais to stand before the visitor. He bowed to her, the style of bow done in the Eastern Lands. “I am the training master, Lord Wyldon of Cavall. How may I assist you and your imperial mistress?”

You’d never guess he once called the Yamanis savages, thought Kel, keeping her expression neutral. She set down her napkin, suddenly conscious that some part of her had been waiting for this moment for over a week now, ever since she’d heard that the Yamani delegation had set sail.

“My mistress says she has been told that Page Keladry of Mindelan is here. Might this unworthy servant of the princess be permitted to speak to her?”

It was a question that would have sounded more natural in Yamani, where status was built into every verb, but the woman made it sound natural enough in Common Eastern, with her musical voice and pleasant manner. Perhaps charmed in spite of himself, if he could be charmed, Lord Wyldon beckoned to Kel. She was already sliding out of her seat. When she reached the front of the hall, she bowed to him as she always had, and then bowed to the newcomer in the Yamani style, offering her the correct bow due to a noblewoman in the emperor’s service. As the other girl bowed to her in return, Kel studied her face. There was something familiar about her, under the rice powder, eyebrow color, and lip paint she wore.

“Please excuse me,” she said slowly, in Common. “But do I have the honor of addressing the Lady Yukimi noh Daiomoru?”

There was a smile in Yukimi’s eyes, though she kept her expression neutral. “You have changed too in five years, Keladry of Mindelan. There is more of you than there was.” Turning, she bowed to the training master again. “My lord, may I ask if Page Keladry is permitted to visit my mistress when her meal is complete?”

“After supper, Page Keladry’s time is her own,” he replied. “Provided she finish her classwork for tomorrow, I see no reason why she shouldn’t visit Her Imperial Highness.” He offered her another bow, and then returned to his table on the dais.

“Where are you and the princess housed?” asked Kel, after he had sat down again.

“In the royal wing,” replied Yukimi. “But please, finish your meal first.” She glanced around, surveying the faces of the pages with detached curiosity. “How they stare.”

She bowed again to Kel, in the manner of one about to depart, and then turned and bowed to the room. Amidst the sudden cacophony of dozens of boys hurrying to stand and bow to her at the same time, Kel watched Lord Wyldon attack his venison with renewed fervor, his eyes narrowed with annoyance.

“Now you’ve done it,” she said quietly, in Yamani. “They won’t be able to talk sense for a week.”

Yukimi drew a fan from her obi, patterned in the same autumnal colors as her layered kimono, and flicked it open. As she hid her mouth with it, someone sighed with longing. It was one of the silliest things Kel had ever witnessed, and she struggled not to laugh out loud. “Easterners normally make sense?” murmured Yukimi, her eyes glinting with mischief over the fan.

Kel held the door for her as she left, before returning to her table to finish eating. As she sat down again, she found herself besieged by questions. She answered them as best she could between bites, until Gavain rolled his eyes and said, “Let her eat. You’ll see plenty of the Yamani ladies at parties.”

“You mean we’ll see plenty of Master Oakbridge,” muttered Prosper, one of his year-mates.

After supper, Kel straightened her uniform and nodded a farewell to her friends. “You look oddly like you’re heading off to the gallows,” Neal remarked. “I suppose that’s apt, considering there’s little chance of you finishing your history essay tonight, is there?”

She groaned. “Don’t remind me. I haven’t even finished that last mathematics problem. I just hope that whatever the princess wants with me, it’s quick.”

At least she knew Yukimi, she thought, as she strode down the corridors toward the royal wing. Regardless of who the princess and her other attendants turned out to be, she’d have one person from the Yamani delegation she could talk to. She had only a general sense of where she was going, but when she reached the entrance to the royal wing, she found a Yamani guard standing at attention in the corridor, waiting to escort her into the presence of Princess Shinkokami.

She followed him to a sitting room decorated in a mix of Tortallan and Yamani styles, with cushions set around a low table. At the head of the table, between Yukimi and a slightly older young woman dressed in cinnamon-brown and pale blue silk, sat the princess, a tall, willowy girl wearing gold and scarlet.

Kel knelt on the rug, bowing to her as she remembered doing before the Yamani imperial family so many times. For a moment, as her forehead brushed the silk rug, it was as though she’d never left.

“Keladry, no. I am an Easterner now — you must greet me as one.”

There was something about her voice, some hint of laughter that bubbled through even when she was speaking in Common, trying carefully to pronounce the words correctly. Kel sat up, studying her face. Unlike her ladies, the princess wore no rice powder or lip paint. Her golden outer kimono was embroidered with scarlet and gold cranes; a small figurine of a kimono-clad cat hung from her scarlet obi. Kel gazed at it, thinking. She had seen that cat somewhere before.

“Cricket?” she whispered.

Shinkokami laughed, half surprised and half delighted. “You _do_ know me! I wasn’t sure if you would.”

Kel shook her head slightly, bewildered. Cricket had been one of her first friends at the emperor’s court. She remembered her as long-limbed and wild, always running about, always laughing. She had taught Kel Yamani songs and children’s games. “You never said you belonged to the imperial house,” she said, trying not to sound accusing. It occurred to her now that she had never thought to wonder where Cricket had come from precisely: a minor bureaucrat’s daughter? A forest spirit, emerging from the imperial gardens to befriend and protect Kel?

A second-rank princess. She had never even known her full name before, only the name everyone had called her as a child.

“We were in disgrace with my uncle the emperor then,” Shinkokami explained. “I loved it that you treated me like an ordinary person, so I never told you. Are you upset with me?”

“Of course not,” Kel assured her. How could she be? She had thought she’d never see her again.

Shinkokami smiled, looking relieved, and then cleared her throat. “Keladry of Mindelan,” she began, in more formal tones, “I do not believe you know my other attendant, Lady Haname noh Ajikuro.”

By the second fish course, Alex was seriously considering stabbing himself with his belt knife to escape his dining partner. Just a shallow wound would do it, perhaps on the hand. Hands bled a great deal, after all. With enough blood, he could alarm anyone.

His dining partner, Ivenna of Fenrigh, did not appear to notice his mood. “Are you fond of music, my lord?” she asked, and he winced slightly. Lady Ivenna was not a particularly large woman, but she was possessed of an unusually loud, brassy voice. By this point in the banquet, he was a little surprised that the chandelier overhead was still intact.

“Not especially,” he murmured, his attention on the glazed salmon that one of the pages had just served him.

“Melora is a particularly fine harp player,” she went on, as though he hadn’t spoken. “I’m sure she would be glad to demonstrate her skills.”

“Mother,” said her daughter quietly, with a note of warning in her voice. If he recalled correctly, Melora was her second-oldest daughter, and still unmarried at the age of twenty-four, which explained why Lady Ivenna was currently scraping the bottom of the barrel with him. She sat on the other side of her mother, wearing a frothy green gown and delicate gold surcoat, and looking rather sullen.

“Not now, dear,” said Lady Ivenna. “I believe you know the Naxens rather well?”

He grunted, and as the page assigned to their table returned with a platter of roast boar, she went on to describe a party she had recently attended at Fief Naxen. Alex let his mind wander, mapping the layout of the great hall and the distribution of the courtiers, trying to work out which direction an attack might come from, hypothetically, and how best to fend it off.

At the banquet progressed, Lady Ivenna continued to chatter on about their mutual friends, the various kinds of food that lay before them, and her husband’s apple orchards, which were apparently quite impressive. “I believe you grow olives at Fief Tirragen, my lord?” she said, when he didn’t look tempted by the apple orchards.

Grunting again, he fixed his eyes on the king, who sat at the table on the dais a few yards away. The subtleties in between courses were getting more and more impressive, signifying that soon the meal would be over and Roger would rise from his chair to lead them all into the ballroom. Not soon enough, though. Help me, thought Alex, trying to catch the king’s eye. If he thought it hard enough, surely Roger would hear him and come to his rescue.

“My cousin, you know, Sir Elyot, married a Bazhir woman,” Lady Ivenna was saying to him, “and of course I never objected to the match.”

Alex glanced at her in time to see Melora roll her eyes. Their assigned page appeared again, to clear away a few dishes.

“She had some odd customs at first, but she turned out to be a perfect lady in the end, and of course the children do take after him. Good breeding always shows.”

Alex took a sip of his wine, looking pointedly again at the king. He had to put up with the occasional ugly remark about his ancestry from the men he served with, lest they think him the kind of officer who couldn’t let a joke at his expense go unchallenged, but he wasn’t in the mood to hear it from someone like Lady Ivenna.

Roger glanced up, meeting his eyes at last, and smiled. Relieved, Alex smiled back at him. The king raised his cup to him, drained it, and then got to his feet.

“Would you excuse me,” said Alex to Lady Ivenna, as the courtiers began to rise from their tables as well. He was on his feet before she could object, looking around for someone to rescue him from her and the other matchmaking mothers scattered about the banquet hall.

Roger had already vanished into the ballroom, and he was too personable for Alex’s taste at the moment anyway. A few yards away, looking aloof in billowing mage robes, stood Thom of Trebond. As Alex hurried toward him, he watched Thom’s expression shift from boredom to incredulity to amusement. “One of _those_ evenings, I see. How big was the dowry this time?”

“I wasn’t listening,” said Alex, following him into the ballroom. “Why do they never come after you?”

Thom raised an eyebrow. “I believe it’s because I’m terrifying, and I have a reputation for hating everyone at court and bedding every knight who looks at me twice. There’s a contradiction there, of course, but nobody seems to question it, which is fine by me. _Nobody_ wants me for a son-in-law,” he added triumphantly. “Your problem is that you’re too approachable.”

Alex snorted. “Terrifying? You?”

“I seem to recall that when I made the ground open up and swallow a group of Scanran raiders a few years back, you called me a walking nightmare.”

“Ah,” said Alex, suddenly remembering that battle. “That does sound like something I’d call you.”

“Your misfortune, I suppose, to be assigned northern border duty the same month I happened to be visiting the City of the Gods.” Thom flashed him a smile, before snatching the edge of his robe away from a ring of four dancers clasping hands and slowly turning in a circle toward him. “Don’t worry, I didn’t mind at all. I’m used to such treatment from you, you brute.”

Alex caught him by the elbow, steering him away from the dance floor and toward safety. “If I remember correctly, you told me to put my head between my knees, breathe deeply, and quit whining.”

“Sound advice for all situations, _I_ think,” said Thom archly, trying to signal to one of the squires circling the room with a tray of drinks. “Get someone’s head between your knees and meditate for a bit, and you’re sure to feel better.”

“Please, Thom, not in front of the squires.”

They found a deserted corner at the far end of the ballroom where Alex could stand with his back to the wall. “I wish you’d been seated at my table instead.”

“The feeling is mutual, I assure you. At least you didn’t have to listen to Lord Imrah droning on about the Yamani trade agreement with Prince Eitaro.” Thom glanced at him, frowning with concern. “What on earth did that woman say to you? You were in a terrible mood when you rushed over to me.”

Alex smiled faintly. Thom had a gift for being able to read his moods, which he had grown to find more comforting than unsettling over the years. The less he had to explain himself to other people, the happier he was. He had never asked Thom — or Roger, for that matter — any details about the extent to which they could see into his head. He didn’t think he wanted to know.

“Essentially, she said that she’s willing to overlook my mother’s side of the family if I take her aging daughter off her hands for a few acres of apple trees.”

“Take the deal. And then drown your mother-in-law in a vat of cider.”

Alex laughed.

“She’s not a bad-looking girl, really,” said Thom thoughtfully, looking at him sidelong. “If you like that sort of thing.”

“Then you marry her. I already have an heir.”

“Ah, yes, your cousin. I suppose he already has a pack of children, so the Tirragen line is secure?”

“He has three children.”

“Poor man,” said Thom distractedly, his gaze fixed on the crowd still coming through the doorway from the banquet hall. “Oh blast, there’s Harailt. I do actually need to talk to him about something.”

He turned back to Alex, smiling sweetly. “If that woman captures you again, I’ll do my best to rescue you, or create a diversion so you can escape, or whatever you like. Just say the word, and I’ll gladly set a curtain on fire.”

More likely, he’d wander into the nearest library and forget all about him. Alex watched him vanish into the crowd, feeling oddly lonely, and then he seized a cup of mulled wine from the tray of a passing squire and escaped out into the garden.

It was bitterly cold outside, but at least he was alone. The sky was clear, a rich tapestry of stars blazing over a maze of dark hedges and paths blanketed with yesterday’s snowfall. He sipped his wine, letting it warm him as he gazed up at the stars.

Fewer matchmaking mothers came after him now that he was forty and still stubbornly unmarried. That was cold comfort after the evening he’d had, but it helped somewhat to remember how much worse it had been when he was a young man.

He was fairly certain that the Trebond line had died out save for Thom and Alanna, assuming she was even still alive. Had Alex been in Thom’s position, without half a dozen first cousins, he would have done his duty and married; but for some reason Thom seemed content to let Fief Trebond fall into royal hands when he died. Alex couldn’t understand it.

He walked a little further into the garden, as the noise of the party rose and fell behind him. Pausing for a few minutes in the shadows, he breathed in the scent of woodsmoke and frost, and let himself imagine that he was somewhere far away from the palace, perhaps home at his fief or stationed along the Scanran border. After a little while, he began to feel better.

He almost spilled his cup of mulled wine when what he’d taken for an ornamental hedge in the darkness turned its head and spoke to him. “Alex? Is that you?”

It was Raoul, half-concealed by one of the taller hedges. Alex relaxed his stance, moving his feet out of guard position, and took a sip of his wine. Raoul was not someone who would make him go back inside. “What are you doing out here? Hiding from matchmaking mothers?”

There was a pause. “You’re doing the same thing, aren’t you?” said Raoul, his smile glinting white in the darkness.

Alex inclined his head. “Guilty.”

“Well, there isn’t much room back here for you.” Raoul stepped out from behind the hedge, and nodded toward the path winding away from the palace. “Want to go for a walk?”

Alex followed him without a backward glance.

“Lerant takes his Ordeal tomorrow night, doesn’t he? Good luck to him.”

“Thank you,” said Alex. Ahead of them loomed the Royal Forest, vast and black, against the moonlit night. He struggled to suppress a shiver as the wind picked up, aware that neither of them were dressed properly for the weather. Snow crunched underfoot as they walked along. He saw no one else on the path, no one else nearby breathing white clouds into the darkness.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“I told him I haven’t lost a squire in there yet, but I don’t think he found it comforting.” He took another sip of his wine, and discovered that it had gone cold.

Raoul chuckled. “You know, I fought sea raiders with Douglass of Veldine this summer, along the northern coast.”

“Your first squire, wasn’t he? How is he?”

“Doing well. He turned out to be a fine knight.” He was silent for a moment. “I’m not sure we did them any favors, taking them on — Douglass, Geoffrey, Sacherell, Alan. We were so green ourselves that Duke Gareth would have done better to plant us. What could they have learned from us?”

“Alanna,” said Alex softly. “Her name’s Alanna.”

“You’re right,” said Raoul, sounding faintly surprised. “It’s hard to remember, sometimes. Or I remember, but then my tongue slips.”

He had been talking about her, thought Alex. Out in the field, there were no listening spells to ferry unwary talk of her back to Roger. Raoul could reminisce with Douglass and her other year-mates at length, with nobody the wiser. He found himself smiling at that thought.

“Out of curiosity,” said Raoul, “how old do you think we’ll have to be before the matchmaking mothers stop coming after us?”

“A corpse on a battlefield,” said Alex.

“You’re certainly cheery tonight.” Reaching a fork in the path, he left the decision of which way to turn up to Alex, and then followed him to the left. “Sometimes the others ask me why I don’t just get married to escape them.”

“What do you tell them?”

“That I don’t want to.” He studied Alex’s face in the moonlight. “What do you tell them?”

“That I already have an heir, and more cousins waiting in line after him.” He wished Raoul would stop gazing at him in that way. He was in no mood to have any of his secrets pulled out of him like teeth. “Do they ever ask _why_ you don’t want to?” he asked, curious in spite of himself. Alex didn’t care for gossip, but he couldn’t help overhearing it sometimes, and he knew that people told the same rumors about Raoul as they did about him, and Thom, and every other nobleman who wasn’t in a hurry to get married.

“Sometimes,” said Raoul. “Usually I make a joke, but if I’m feeling honest, I tell them I think it would be unfair to wed someone just to escape a host of mothers. I can’t see that leading to a happy marriage.” He glanced back toward the palace with a sigh. “To be honest, I can’t see how any of the dancing around each other that men and women do can lead to happy marriages. I’ve lost my taste for courtship rituals.”

“I never had any taste for it.”

Raoul was looking at him again. “No, you didn’t, did you? You never lost your head over Delia the way the rest of us did.”

At that first party together, where that unfamiliar creature in shimmering silk had been formally introduced to the court as Delia of Eldorne, his childhood friend, she had apparently spent the entire evening waiting for Alex to ask her to dance. He had discovered that the next morning, when she’d accosted him in a library full of questions about palace life, Prince Jonathan, his other friends, his training, what it was like being a knight. “Didn’t you recognize me?” he remembered her asking him at one point, looking hurt that he’d ignored her all night. Exhausted by her flurry of questions and the way his friends panted after her, he had tried to avoid her after that. Now, with the distance of twenty years, he could see how unkind he had been to her.

“Now, I’m not dead set against marriage,” Raoul was saying. “If I were friends with a woman first, maybe, if we’d known each other long enough to be sure it would work out. But I don’t see how flirting with someone occasionally at dances is going to lead to that.”

“I still can’t believe you and Gary dueled over one of Delia’s riding gloves.”

Raoul laughed. “Ah, to be young and foolish again, instead of old and foolish. Would _you_ ever marry?”

Alex hesitated for a moment. His mother would certainly be delighted if he did; his cousin’s wife would not be. To marry would be to disinherit Mikal and his children — assuming his marriage led to a son, which was what everyone would expect. He had no interest whatsoever in bedding some grasping noblewoman’s spare daughter, but he thought he could manage if he really had to — but he didn’t have to.

The only real benefit to marriage he could see was that he would have someone else to help defend the castle in the event of an attack. She would have to be someone he could count on in a fight, someone who wouldn’t lose her nerve. For a moment he pictured himself interviewing Melora of Fenrigh for the position, quizzing her on her knowledge of siege warfare and battlefield medicine while her mother looked on in horror.

He smiled at that image, but shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I like my life the way it is.” Besides, Tirragen Castle was built on top of a cliff, with its lower levels — which included the armory and a large number of storerooms — extending down into the rock, and it was very difficult to successfully besiege. And a wife would be another mouth to feed during the long droughts that plagued Hill Country.

Raoul grinned, his teeth glinting in the moonlight. “Well said.”

“It’s awfully cold. Maybe we should go back inside and have some more mulled wine.”

“Oh, I’ve given up wine,” said Raoul, though he turned back toward the palace with him.

“Have you? Since when?” The wind blew a scattering of white across the path ahead of them, and Alex couldn’t quite tell whether it had blown down from the trees overhead, or whether it had begun to snow again.

“Nearly two years ago now. I’ve found I don’t like the person I become when I drink it. I tried giving it up a few times before that,” he added, drawing his green velvet cape around himself more tightly, “but it didn’t take. This time I think it has.”

Alex wasn’t entirely sure what to say to that. Sometimes he didn’t like the person he had become either, but he didn’t think giving up wine would help him much. “Well, you can have some hot cider, then. Something hot, at any rate.”

“Quite right,” said Raoul cheerfully. “And we’ll defend each other and the other old bachelors from the indignities of courtship rituals.”

**456 H.E.**

Although her page training prevented Kel from joining the Yamani ladies at their dawn naginata practice as they’d wanted her to, she did get to see them from time to time over the coming winter and spring. During her nightly banquet service, she usually glimpsed Yukimi or Lady Haname from a few tables away, as she waited on the arch-priestess and those who sat at her table.

Usually the arch-priestess was joined by the Shang warriors, and sometimes by Harailt of Aili. Often Lord Thom was there, unless he was away from the palace or he chose to eat alone in his rooms while poring over some old manuscript or outlining some new spell he was working on. One evening, Yuki was seated at the arch-priestess’s table, and spent the evening in conversation with Harailt of Aili. Kel had forgotten, until that night, that she had the Gift.

Princess Shinkokami was always seated on the dais with the royal family, where Kel could only glance at her from afar, looking stiff and formal in her court gowns. But every few weeks she invited Kel to tea in her sitting room, where they could all relax and talk at length. One night in January, not long after Lord Wyldon added more weights to the pages’ harnesses to ring in the new year, Kel was ushered into the princess’s sitting room to find a fourth girl already there, kneeling at the low table between Shinkokami and Lady Haname.

Kel had been curious about Princess Jessamine, especially after Gavain had mentioned that she’d wanted to be the first female page herself, until the king and queen had talked her out of it. If she bore any grudge toward Kel over that, it didn’t show. She only smiled at Kel, who was struck by how much she resembled her father. Shinkokami introduced them, and Kel bowed to her and to Jessamine in the Eastern style, suddenly glad that Master Oakbridge had spent so much time drilling them in the correct bow owed to a princess.

“Let’s not stand on ceremony here, Page Keladry,” said Jessamine. She glanced at Shinkokami, who nodded slightly, and then smiled again. “Please, sit down.”

Kel knelt at the table next to Yuki. As Shinkokami’s maids prepared the tea and set out an array of Yamani sweets, Jessamine gazed at her with open curiosity. “Gavain has mentioned you so many times in his letters,” she remarked, “that I almost feel like I know you already. He says you’re very good at tilting and you have an angry horse with an incongruous name.” She picked up a small cake made of pounded rice flour and stained pale pink, and studied it with interest before biting into it.

Kel smiled. “I see Peachblossom’s reputation precedes him, Your Highness.” As soon as all the Yamani ladies had served themselves, she took one of the pink cakes as well, hoping it contained red bean paste. She suspected at least one of the cakes was flavored with chestnuts, and she still wasn’t sure that she was up to eating chestnuts again, given how many times Lord Wyldon had forced her to climb that chestnut tree at the end of her first year of page training.

“Yours too. This is quite good,” said Jessamine to Shinkokami, indicating the cake. “It’s not what I was expecting, when you said it was made from rice and beans.”

“No,” agreed Shinkokami pleasantly. “But then, I wasn’t expecting to see that winged horse made from spun sugar at my first banquet here.”

“You can come see how those are made, if you like. I do it all the time. The cooks say they don’t mind, so long as I stay out of their way.” She took a sip of green tea, and then looked up at Kel again. “Shinko says you know how to use a naginata,” she said, taking care to pronounce the word correctly. “I want to learn too, but Mama seems a bit reluctant. _I_ think a lady ought to know how to defend herself if she needs to.”

Kel glanced at Shinkokami in time to see her eyebrows move slightly closer together, as though she had flinched. She felt a pang of sympathy for her. If the queen didn’t like the idea of her own daughter learning how to use a weapon, what did she think of her daughter-in-law practicing with one?

“I suggested to Mama that she and I attend a naginata practice together one morning,” Jessamine went on, “but so far she hasn’t agreed. I’m sure she’ll change her mind eventually, though.” She took another sip of tea, before turning to Shinkokami with a smile. “Earlier you were telling me about Yamani music. Now, correct me if I’m wrong — your lute is similar to ours, but your lap harp is as big as a desk?”

“As long, perhaps,” said Yuki, looking amused. “Not quite as wide.”

“We call it a koto,” explained Shinkokami. “We brought one with us, if you’d like to hear it played. Lady Haname is quite a skilled musician.”

The koto was produced, the tea set aside as they listened to Lady Haname play a song Kel hadn’t heard in years. Later that night, she drifted off to sleep to the echoes of bright, rippling music.

The next evening, Lalasa threw Kel against a door for the second time, during one of their self-defense practices. “You’re _laughing_ again,” she said, as she helped Kel to her feet. “I’ll never understand you, my lady.”

A few weeks later, Princess Jessamine commissioned another gown from Lalasa, and Kel was able to tell her maid that she could now afford a dress shop of her own. There was a bittersweet edge to her pride in Lalasa: soon enough she would be a squire, and her maid would be a shop owner, and they would never be able to return to the way things were now.

The snow began to melt, and the pages returned to their riding lessons outside. Almost immediately, Lord Wyldon found a new way to torment the fourth-years, and set them to tilting at each other. As Kel rode at one of her friends for the first time, her lance pointed at his heart, she found herself wishing Lord Wyldon had left this lesson for their knight-masters to teach.

A few days later, after that Sunday evening’s combat tactics lesson, Kel found herself in conversation with Prince Jonathan as they walked back toward the pages’ wing. “The first time I tilted at one of my friends, I was pretty sure we were both about to die,” he remarked, after overhearing her discussing the matter with Merric. “My main regret was that I wouldn’t live long enough to see my father set Lord Wyldon on fire. He’d just increased the weights on our harnesses, too.”

From there the conversation turned to naval tactics. Evidently the king was interested in improving the Tortallan navy, and had started looking to the Yamanis for ideas. Kel wasn’t surprised to learn this; the previous week, she’d stayed late in Shinkokami’s sitting room, discussing Yamani naval campaigns with the princess’s ladies and Jessamine, and almost didn’t make it back to her room before lights out. She was in the middle of telling Jonathan something that Shinkokami had said about shipboard archery techniques when they reached her room. Her attention on what she was saying, she opened the door.

Shiro trotted over to greet them, his tail waving like a banner. Kel froze. How could she have forgotten about him? Pages weren’t supposed to have pets, and now the prince knew she kept a dog in her room. She’d be finished if he told Lord Wyldon about this. Lalasa looked up at her from the window seat, her eyes wide.

“I tried using one of those giant longbows they have,” Jonathan remarked, as he knelt to scratch Shiro behind his ear. “I prefer mine, but I can see their uses in a naval battle.” Shiro rolled over, inviting the prince to rub his belly. “What a charming fellow.”

“He’s very fond of all the pages,” explained Kel. “He’s figured out how to jump into the palace through my window.”

Jonathan gave her a knowing look. “Clever, too. You know, I’ve been given a book on Yamani ship construction to read. It’s more interesting than it sounds. I could loan it to you after I’m done, if you like.”

“Thank you,” said Kel, her heart still pounding. “I’d like that.”

Jonathan gave Shiro one last belly rub before climbing to his feet again. “Well, I’d better get back to my reading. I’ll see you next Sunday, Kel.”

When he had gone, Kel shut the door and breathed a sigh of relief. She turned around again and found Lalasa still watching her, needle poised over the silk spilling over her lap. There was a thoughtful frown upon her face.

“I don’t _think_ he’ll tell anyone about Shiro. I hope he won’t, anyway.”

“No, my lady, I don’t think he will.”

“Don’t tell me you think I’ve made another conquest,” said Kel, remembering her and Tian sitting together in the window seat the year before, giggling over Cleon’s goodbye hug.

“No, I wasn’t going to. He doesn’t look at you the way your friend Cleon does.”

Kel shook her head, not sure whether she was amused or annoyed by that.

“I just didn’t realize you were friends with the crown prince as well as his brother and sister.” Lalasa knew Gavain and liked him, and Kel had told her all about meeting Jessamine. “You’ve made so many friends in high places, my lady. Soon enough, nobody will challenge your right to a shield.”

“Fewer people will, at any rate,” said Kel, amused by Lalasa’s idealism when it came to her. Usually between the two of them, Kel was the idealist.

As spring began in earnest, she did feel she was getting something of a respite from being challenged. In late March, Vinson left for the Great Southern Desert with his knight-master; though Garvey remained at the palace, she saw little of him.

Joren was another story. He had started coming to Sunday night combat tactics lessons, so Kel saw more of him than she had that past autumn. They still traded polite greetings, often initiated by him, when they passed each other in the hallways. He was civil to her friends as well, though she never saw him speak to Gavain or Jonathan during their Sunday night lessons, or meet the king’s eyes. She often saw him watching Roger when he wasn’t looking, though, his face unreadable; nearly as often, she caught him watching her.

Shortly after Vinson left the palace, she ran into Joren in the library one night. Her friends had already finished their homework and gone to bed; she had nearly reached her own room before realizing she’d left one of her books behind. Returning to the library, she found it under her chair, where she dimly remembered having put it after they’d discovered how little room there was with everyone’s books and papers spread out over the table. As she bent down to retrieve it, she caught a glimpse of someone standing behind one of the bookcases.

She crept around the bookcase to see who it was, and discovered Joren. He was not alone. He was looming over Prince Gavain, one hand gripping the smaller boy’s tunic. Gavain glared up at him. His fingers tightened around a book, as though he were about to hit Joren with it.

“What’s going on?” said Kel.

At the sound of her voice, Joren let go of the prince’s tunic abruptly and composed his features into a bland smile. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me. Please, excuse me.”

They watched him walk away. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” said Gavain, straightening his tunic. “Don’t worry, he didn’t hurt me. We were having a discussion about the Sweating Sickness of 431 H.E.”

“Some discussion.” She frowned, trying to recall exactly what she’d learned about the epidemic from her history teacher. “Why were you talking about that?”

“He wanted some help with his research, I suppose,” said Gavain dryly. “I told him he’d do better to ask Duke Baird, who was actually here in Corus at the time. None of my family was — my father was in Carthak, my mother was at a convent in the City of the Gods, and Uncle Garnier was serving on the northern border.”

Understanding dawned. “Did he think your father was involved in _that_?”

“Probably.” He hesitated for a moment. “To be honest, he’s — not the only one. From what I’ve heard, every mage who encountered the Sweating Sickness thought it had a magical origin, and they still don’t know who was responsible.”

“But you said he was in Carthak at the time.”

“True,” he said slowly. “But — the epidemic was confined to Corus. It drained every healer who tried to fight it. Natural illnesses don’t behave like that. And when you look into the Sweating Sickness, you start hearing the same three names, over and over. The only people who would have had the power to do something like that — the right amount of Gift, honed in the right way — were my father, another mage at the University of Carthak, and a Scanran mage — Hadensra, I think his name is.”

Kel frowned again. “How do you know that?”

Gavain sighed. “I was helping out in the palace stillroom last summer, and I overheard a couple of healers talking about it. I think they forgot I was there. I’d heard of it before in passing, but I hadn’t known until then that it was definitely magical in nature, and that they’d never figured out who was responsible for it.” His mouth twisted unhappily. “So I kept looking into it, because I wanted to solve the mystery, and I was startled to learn my father was one of the primary suspects.”

She winced, feeling sympathy for him. “But why would he have done it?”

He smiled faintly, but his eyes were bleak. “He was second in line for the throne. The heir, his cousin, fell seriously ill during the epidemic — but only after the palace healers were drained of their power. He nearly died. I have to admit, I can see why they suspect my father. He had more to gain than the other two suspects.”

That chilled her. “But — his own _people_.”

“I agree, it’s monstrous. I’m not saying I think he did it. I’d certainly like to think he isn’t capable of that.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“I’d prefer not to think about it, really,” he said, and then stifled a yawn. “Gods, it’s getting late. We should probably go to bed.”

They walked out of the library together in silence. “You’d tell me if Joren _had_ hurt you, wouldn’t you?” she asked a few minutes later, as they turned down the corridor that would lead them back to the pages’ wing.

Gavain smiled at her. “Yes, I probably would. But honestly, I haven’t seen him hit anyone since he claimed he wanted to be your friend — including me. He just grabbed me when I told him to go talk to Duke Baird instead, that’s all. Ignoring him usually works.”

“I knew I was right not to trust him.”

“You were.” He was silent for a moment, thoughtfully regarding the crystal lamps mounted on the walls. “I do feel bad for him, though — there were a few weeks when he was sure his father was dying.”

“But it’s wrong for him to take that out on you,” she reminded him. Gavain had a talent for seeing other people’s points of view, to the point that sometimes she worried he might lose track of his own perspective.

“I know. And nearly two years have passed since then.” He glanced at her, his expression difficult to read. “Joren is the kind of person who holds a grudge. I’d watch my back around him, if I were you.”

The lamps were beginning to dim for the night. “You too,” she said, as they made their way down the darkened corridor toward the pages’ wing. “You look like you’re asleep on your feet.”

“I may have been studying too hard,” he admitted, and yawned again.

“Surely not for the exams.” Gavain was a year younger than her, so he wouldn’t have to take the big exams for another year, and the little exams were nothing to study for.

“Not at all. Jon’s making me learn Yamani so he can practice on me.”

She shook her head, smiling wryly. “It’s wonderful having older siblings, isn’t it?”

“Just lovely. Though I’m actually finding Yamani very interesting. I’d just found a book on the history of the islands when Joren found me.” He stopped in front of the door to his room. “So, are you excited for your upcoming exams?”

Kel rolled her eyes. “What I’m excited for is for them to be over, so I won’t have to listen to Neal losing his mind over them any longer. Good night, Gavain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue is taken from _Squire_.
> 
> In the middle of proofreading this chapter I took a sudden detour to try to hunt down whatever line in canon gave me the impression that Thom can also read people's minds, and found it explicitly stated in the Sweating Sickness chapter that he can, when Alanna is explaining the nature of both their Gifts to the king. I'm not precisely sure what "he can see people's minds" means relative to Roger's powers, but I've chosen to go with some kind of vague empathy thing that Roger just chose to practice a lot until he could read more specific thoughts and also control people.


	5. Squire Keladry

**456 H.E.**

Something was wrong. Hoping that somehow he had miscounted, that his eyes were merely playing tricks on him, Wyldon scanned the faces of the assembled pages for a third time. He had not miscounted them. Keladry of Mindelan was not there.

For a moment Wyldon stared off into space, puzzled. It wasn’t like the girl to be late. Not on today of all days. Perhaps she was ill?

The pages were whispering amongst themselves, and that wouldn’t do. “Quiet,” he told them. “Regardless of who is or isn’t here, it is time for the exam. Conduct yourselves in a manner more appropriate to your station.”

Illness aside, pages had to be present for their exams; those were the rules. Wyldon led the boys in a brief prayer to Mithros before leaving the room and taking his seat among the spectators. A few minutes later, the first page was summoned from the assembly chamber, to take his place before the judges.

A girl sitting a few rows in front of him leaned forward, looking excited. Wyldon frowned at the sight of her: a child of about ten, with olive-toned skin and brown curls that fought their hairpins, seated with her parents and a younger girl who looked like her sister. Fianola of Torhelm. The king had bullied him into accepting her as a page in the fall.

Had it been bullying, precisely? It was a thought that unsettled him every time it rose to the surface, reminding him of the conversation in which he had politely informed the king that he did not intend to allow a second girl to train as a page until Keladry had proven herself and won her shield. In response, Roger had focused his clear blue eyes on Wyldon and smiled. “But Wyldon, there are already so many girls clamoring to become knights. Would you deny them that chance?”

“I would,” Wyldon had replied, “if I thought them likely to fail.” He recalled feeling a twinge of uncertainty as he’d said it, which wasn’t like him.

The king shrugged. “Some _will_ fail, just like the boys. But others will succeed. All we are trying to do here is prove that women can be knights, not that _all_ women are suited for knighthood. Surely we can say that the experiment has been successful when Keladry is made a squire without incident. Fianola is of an age to start her training a few months later.”

Under the force of his gaze, Wyldon had felt his resolve break down. It didn’t feel like magic, precisely: at no point had he felt unusually tired, or like he’d lost control over any part of his body. It was simply that, over the course of their conversation, the king’s argument had begun to make sense, until at last, Wyldon had relented.

Wyldon glanced now toward the king, who watched the examinations from one of the chairs set aside for royalty. Seemingly unaware that he was being observed, Roger lounged in his chair, looking relaxed and slightly bored, his gaze fixed on his nephew and the judges at the front of the room. After a while, Wyldon looked away.

It was said that the king had an uncanny talent for getting whatever he wanted. Wyldon tried to suppress a shudder at that thought.

As one of the judges, Ricard of Fenrigh, began to read out the second question, Wyldon heard a rustle of cloth behind him. He turned his head slightly, curious. He had chosen to sit along the aisle and toward the back of the room, as he always did, where he would be unobtrusive and not boxed in by the other spectators. The rows behind him had been empty.

Behind him, Thom of Trebond was gracelessly arranging voluminous black-and-gold robes around his scrawny legs, showing off his eye-searing scarlet slippers. He was dressed surprisingly tastefully under the robes, for Thom of Trebond, in shades of cream and soft brown embroidered with gold — to be fair, it _was_ the middle of the day — save for those red slippers and the ruby in his earlobe. Frowning, Wyldon turned back to face the judges.

Jasson of Eldorne performed credibly, as his brother had before him. Wyldon smiled, watching the queen applaud her nephew. Perhaps that explained Trebond’s presence: he was well known to be unnaturally close to the king. Perhaps Roger had asked him to attend, and watch Jasson become a squire. Wyldon highly doubted that Trebond was there for any of his own students. He had never elected to watch the exams before, and more than once over the years, he had told Wyldon that as soon as they were out of his sight, the little mages were no longer his problem. It felt like a testament to Wyldon’s extraordinary self-control that he had never lost his temper and strangled Trebond.

The next squire to emerge was Merric of Hollyrose, who was followed by Quinden of Marti’s Hill. As Quinden vanished into the assembly chamber again, after answering all the questions put to him admirably, Wyldon felt an odd stirring of hope. It was dashed when Esmond of Nicoline walked out.

He was proud of the way that Esmond kept his focus on the judges and their questions, ignoring the murmuring that had started up among the spectators. The next page, Nealan of Queenscove, did well enough, though Wyldon would have marked him down for lack of brevity in his answers. Then it was Seaver of Tasride’s turn.

Hadn’t Trebond’s mother been a Tasride? Yes, of course, now he remembered: Seaver’s father had been Trebond’s first cousin. That explained his presence at the examinations. Wyldon turned his head again, and found the mage leaning forward in his chair, his fiery brows knitted as though in confusion.

He did not like Trebond, but he was proud of Seaver, and he could be civil. “Your kinsman is a credit to his house,” he told him quietly.

Trebond’s frown deepened. “Oh, indeed?”

“His father would be proud of him. By the way, I was very sorry to hear about Lord Tasride. Your cousin, wasn’t he?”

Trebond stared at him for a moment in silence. “Oh . . . yes, that’s right.”

Wyldon nodded to him, before turning around again to watch Seaver take his academic examination.

“Wasn’t there a girl page as well?” asked Trebond. Wyldon turned again to face him, frowning. “Where did she get to?”

“She isn’t here,” said Wyldon stiffly.

He didn’t like Trebond’s eyes at the best of times, and right now they were lit with a strange light that made him feel distinctly uneasy. “Why not?”

Wyldon felt a familiar urge rising in him: the urge to strangle Trebond. His self-control held. “I don’t know,” he muttered, feeling suddenly ashamed of that fact. “We don’t know where she is.”

He turned back to Seaver and the judges, trying to focus on them. It was a shame, really — after all he had seen of her over the past four years, he knew Keladry would have passed her examinations — but the rules were in place for a reason. Even so . . .

After all he had seen of her over the past four years, he knew that Keladry would not have missed the big examinations without a very good reason. The fact that she wasn’t here suggested that she was seriously ill, or injured.

He should alert the palace watchmen. In a moment the examinations would move outside so the boys could demonstrate the combat skills they had learned as pages; he could have a message sent to the sergeant on duty then.

The king and queen rose from their seats, preparing to go outside to watch the combat tests. Wyldon waited a moment before rising as well. Not hearing cloth rustling behind him, he glanced over his shoulder, and jumped. Lord Trebond had vanished.

Kel paused for a moment, surveying the three rusted steps in a row before her with dismay. On the bright side, she thought, surely no chestnut tree Lord Wyldon made her climb now could scare her. If he made her run along the curtain wall every day for her next four years of page training, she wouldn’t flinch.

She took a deep breath, and then forced herself to seize the railings and swing over the rusted stairs. Her knees buckled when she landed, a flash of pain shooting through her wounded leg. “Careful when you touch down.”

Lalasa gripped the railings, hesitating.

“Can your wrists take your weight?” asked Kel, glancing with concern at the welts on her skin where the ropes had rubbed it raw.

“I _think_ so.” She shut her eyes for a moment, and then swung herself clear of the rust.

Kel steadied her, before turning away and realizing how close one of her feet had come to the edge of the step. Her vision dimmed; she held still, waiting for her head to clear.

“ _There_ you are!” cried a familiar voice, from perhaps a foot or two to her left.

Kel looked around, startled, and saw Thom of Trebond standing at the base of the tower, shielding his eyes from the sun as he gazed up at them. “How did you find us?” she called down to him, pitching her voice to be heard over the wind.

“That pendant you’re wearing,” he replied, still sounding as though he stood next to her. “I _can_ recognize my own work. You needn’t shout.”

Her hand went to the pendant concealed under her shirt, the stone cool against her skin. “Can you hear me?” she asked quietly.

“Clear as a bell. I’m coming up.”

“Be careful — some of the steps are rusted.”

He didn’t reply. After a moment, Kel descended to the next stair, and Lalasa followed her, frowning slightly. They could hear the staircase creaking ominously with the footsteps of someone ascending the decaying iron. When Thom came into view a few moments later, he was standing on a rusted stair that glowed with a faint violet light. Shiro began to growl softly at the sight of him.

“It’s all right,” he said to Kel, when he saw the look on her face. “It holds my weight; it will hold yours; it would hold the king’s weight if he cared to come up here and take a closer look at the _state_ of this staircase.”

Lalasa stroked Shiro’s head, trying to soothe him. “He remembers you, I think, my lord,” she said, a little dryly.

Thom raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I remember him, too.” Then his eyes narrowed. “You’re bleeding badly,” he said to Kel. “Halt for a moment.”

He brushed his fingers over the makeshift bandage on her leg. Coolness emanated from his touch, muting the throbbing ache. “I’m dismal at healing, I’m afraid,” he said, as he began to descend the stairs again slowly. “I can’t do much more than stop the pain, and burn away the beginnings of infection. My sister could have fixed you up on the spot without even leaving a scar, but unfortunately she’s not here. More’s the pity. Did you want me to levitate you down to the ground, at least?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Kel saw Lalasa’s face turn ashen. “No, thank you, my lord,” said Kel, gripping the railings hard before she stepped gingerly onto that first glowing purple stair. “I think we’d both prefer to walk down.”

The stair held; when she experimentally set her foot down on the patch of rust, the iron didn’t break or crumble. She sighed, relieved, and descended to the next stair.

“Suit yourself,” said Thom, with a shrug.

The sparrows found them at the base of the tower, shrieking as they flew tight circles around Kel and Lalasa. Kel’s legs shook a little as she clattered down the last few steps; now that they were nearly on the ground, she didn’t try to hide it. In the stone courtyard, Lalasa collapsed, hugging her knees to her chest as she took deep, shuddering breaths. Carefully, Kel lifted Shiro from the sling and placed him gently on the ground.

There came the sound of running footsteps. Startled, Kel glanced up in time to see Tian racing toward them. “My lady! Lalasa! You’re all right!”

When she reached them, she dropped to her knees beside Lalasa and hugged her close, tears streaming down her face. Lalasa clung to her, hiding her face against Tian’s neck. Tian smoothed her hair, murmuring something to her.

“How did you find us?” asked Kel, bewildered. Conscious of having said those exact words not long ago, she glanced at Thom, and saw that he was watching Lalasa and Tian with an uncharacteristically soft, faintly wistful expression upon his face.

Tian fumbled in her apron pocket with her free hand, and gave Kel a square of paper. The handwriting was familiar; she recognized it from the note that had been slid under her door. _Try Balor’s Needle_ , it read. “Someone stuck it to the door,” Tian explained, still stroking Lalasa’s hair. “Gower saw it as he was leaving. My lady, he went to fetch the watch.”

“So did I,” said Thom, as idly as if he were commenting on the weather. “As did Lord Wyldon, I believe.”

“Lord Wyldon?” said Kel, surprised, as several men in the uniform of the palace watch appeared at the far end of the courtyard. Gower followed in their wake, his glum face brightening a little when he saw Lalasa.

“I went to see the exams. He was troubled when you didn’t show up.”

Kel nodded distractedly. She was beginning to feel the urge to collapse to the ground herself; if left to her own devices, she felt she could curl up in the shadow of Balor’s Needle and sleep for hours. Distantly, she could hear one of the palace watchmen talking quietly with Gower.

The man glanced coolly at Lalasa. She rose slowly to her feet, with Tian steadying her. “Your name and station?” he asked.

Thom gazed at them, frowning. “She was bound with ropes,” he murmured, as Lalasa began to answer the watchman’s questions. “What happened to those ropes?”

Kel blinked, confused. “We left them at the top of the tower.”

He looked disappointed by that. “Ah. You don’t happen to have anything the kidnappers used, do you? Anything they touched?”

She thought for a moment, uncertain why he was asking that, and then remembered the burlap sack. The kidnappers had used it to carry Shiro up the tower; she had made a sling from it to carry him down again. She bent down and picked it up off the ground, her head swimming a little as she straightened, and handed it to him. “I have this.”

His eyes lit up. “Perfect. Rough cloth works better.”

She watched purple light shimmer over the burlap. After a moment, darker smudges began to appear amidst the light of his Gift, like dirty fingerprints on silk. Thom smiled faintly, all smug satisfaction. “Would you look at that?”

“What is it?” asked Kel.

“Essence magic,” he replied, gathering the mottled purple light into a ball with a twist of his hand. It hovered beside his ear, looking almost as though it were waiting for something. “We leave a bit of ourselves behind on everything we touch, and skilled mages can use that to track us. Had the kidnappers known that, they might have worn spelled gloves.”

“— one of the baskets we use to take sheets to the laundry,” Lalasa was saying quietly to the watchman who stood before her.

“Is this necessary?” Thom cut in. “These girls need to rest, and they need healers.”

The watchman turned, looking faintly annoyed. “My lord, we are trying to gain a clear sense of what happened here. Kidnapping is a very serious crime.”

Thom smiled again, rather more tightly this time. “It certainly is, which is why I’m proposing to find the perpetrators for you before they escape the palace grounds.” He snapped his fingers, sending the purple ball of light spinning into the open space between him and the watchman. “I’ve no doubt you’ve seen the Lord Provost’s mages perform a tracking spell like this before. Assign one or two of your men to me, and get a healer for these girls _before_ you question them. Page Keladry’s lucky she didn’t open her femoral artery on that rusted iron.”

The watchman glanced at Kel, and she saw his eyes widen slightly as he took in the bandage tied around her leg. “And an animal healer,” she said.

“Have the kennels send their best healer,” said Thom, in the tone of someone who was used to being obeyed.

Sometimes it was nice to have an adult fight her battles for her, thought Kel, and then she remembered something else. “Shiro marked them,” she said, and Lalasa nodded her agreement. “The kidnappers. He bit them.”

“Marvelous,” said Thom. “That’s how we’ll know I found the right men. Well?”

Time seemed to speed up at that point, skipping like a rock over still water. Kel and Lalasa were led to the offices of the palace watch; following his hovering ball of light, Thom disappeared with one of the other watchmen in tow. A healer arrived and examined Kel’s leg while one of the watchmen questioned her; afterward, she could remember none of what either of them had said. She was conscious of the sudden absence of pain, the intense exhaustion that followed. At one point, a kennel healer arrived, and she let him take charge of Shiro. She stretched out on a bench lining one wall of the office.

Sudden, furious barking woke her. “That’s them!” Lalasa cried. “That’s the ones that grabbed me!”

The kennel healer held Shiro; in the doorway, watchmen flanked two men in irons, with bandaged arms and faces and a faint purple glow about them.

Kel sat up, and Lord Thom sat down beside her. “You found them?” she said, still feeling groggy.

“They were trying to sneak out the eastern gate,” he replied. “How’s the leg?”

“Healed.” Something important occurred to her then. “Somebody needs to tell the king about those stairs. They’re not safe.”

Thom smiled. “Leave it to me. There are few things I enjoy more than rubbing Roger’s nose in a problem that isn’t my fault.”

She smiled back at him, and then stifled a yawn.

“ _You_ need to get some rest,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’m going to go find the king.”

Nodding, she leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes.

“Why was it necessary to search the palace to find my youngest daughter? And why is she sleeping on a bench instead of in her room?”

That was her mother’s voice. Kel opened her eyes again, and saw Lady Ilane arguing with the head of the palace watch.

From there she was carried back to her room in the pages’ wing by one of the watchmen. She remembered catching disjointed glimpses of the corridors from the vantage point of someone’s shoulder — remembered feeling someone tugging off her boots as she sank into the comfort of her bed — remembered sparrows shrieking overhead.

She dreamed of flying: the sparrows had told her she could join them, if she wanted to. They taught her to leap and let her wings catch the air. She was gliding on the breeze, circling the curtain wall between the palace grounds and the city, when a familiar voice intruded.

“Keladry. Time to wake up.”

She opened her eyes. Lord Wyldon sat on the edge of her bed, gazing down at her calmly. “Is this the Realms of the Dead?” she asked.

“No,” said her mother, from the other side of the bed. “You’ve slept a while, and you had a healing. You know those tire you.” She cast a sharp glance at Lord Wyldon. “I _told_ you she ought to stay in bed for longer. She’s exhausted.”

“She ought to have something to eat as well,” he pointed out.

He helped her sit up comfortably, and as she drank from the mug of warm tea her mother offered to her, he said quietly, “The watch captain asks me to assure you that whoever paid those men to kidnap Lalasa will be found. I will make sure that is so — I want to learn what manner of creature would do so infamous a thing.”

Kel glanced at him, frowning slightly. She wasn’t used to hearing him talk like that, as though she were something fragile, and she didn’t think she liked it. “Did you call the watch?” she asked.

He blinked, looking faintly surprised. “Yes, I did. Evidently I wasn’t the only one.”

“I want it explained to me,” said Ilane, “why a high-ranking court mage just happened to be in the right place at the right time to not only find my daughter climbing down the outer stair of Balor’s Needle, but also find the men who had kidnapped her maid.”

In retrospect, thought Kel, she ought to have told her parents about the gifts, and the conversations over tea in Thom’s office. She had meant to, but she’d been so busy over the past few years, and so had they, that she’d never found the right moment. And there had been something else that had dissuaded her: the knowledge that Alanna haunted every conversation she’d had with him, Alanna’s ghostly fingers tying the ribbon on every gift, while Alanna’s name was not to be openly breathed within the walls of the palace. “About that . . .”

“I would like to know that as well,” said Lord Wyldon. “Apparently he told the watch captain he’d gone to Balor’s Needle to scry.”

Ilane raised an eyebrow. “After coming directly from the exams? It seems too great a coincidence.”

“I don’t disagree.”

“It’s not that I think he was necessarily _involved_ with the kidnapping in any way, but he certainly knows more than —”

“He wasn’t,” said Kel, appalled that anyone would think so. “He wouldn’t have done anything like that.”

“How do you know?” asked Ilane sharply.

“I’ve talked with him,” said Kel. “He’s always been very nice to me.”

Lord Wyldon frowned thoughtfully. “He _is_ often seated at the banquet table where she serves.”

Her mother looked unconvinced, but before she could say anything else, they heard the pattering of nails on the flagstones, and then Shiro leapt onto her bed and curled up at her feet. Kel froze, staring at him. She wasn’t allowed to have pets.

“Ah,” said Lord Wyldon, his face breaking into a smile. “Here’s the bravest dog in the palace.”

Kel glanced at him. The world had run mad, she thought.

“It’s nearly suppertime,” he said, patting her shoulder. “Why don’t you go get changed, and we can talk more as we walk over to the mess hall?”

Ilane was able to get the whole story from Kel the next day, after breakfast. The new squires had been given the morning off in the wake of the exams — though they were not officially squires until after Kel took the makeup exam Wyldon had scheduled for her. They went for a short walk in the Royal Forest, away from prying ears and eyes, where Kel told them the story of her mysterious benefactor.

“He was just — disappearing and reappearing inside your _room_?” said Piers at one point, looking alarmed. “I wasn’t aware that was something anyone could _do_. We were told those locks were secure.”

Ilane said nothing, only kept her expression neutral and listened, as though she were back at the emperor’s court, until Kel mentioned the pendant. Then a flash of fear shot through her — an old fear, taught to her in her cradle — before dying down as suddenly as it had appeared, when she remembered what she knew of Lord Thom. “A grown man gave you jewelry?” she said mildly. “That hardly seems appropriate.”

“It isn’t like _that_ ,” said Kel, looking appalled. “He said it was a protective amulet.”

“Protective how?” asked Piers, as their daughter drew it out from under her shirt and showed it to them.

It was lovely, though likely not as expensive as Ilane had feared. It looked like quartz, but he had done something to it; that dark red color at the base made her uneasy. It looked as though blood had pooled inside the stone. Hesitantly, she reached out and touched it, and nothing happened: no feeling that her hand was being repelled by it, no spark when her finger brushed the cool stone. It felt ordinary.

“He said I’ll be able to see through illusions when I’m wearing it, and no enemy mages will be able to read my mind or make me do their bidding.”

“How did he make this, I wonder?” said Piers. “That almost looks like blood.”

“How do you know it works?” asked Ilane.

“Well, we tested it, to see whether it would still work if I kept it in my belt purse.”

There was a serious flaw in that line of reasoning, and judging by the flicker of doubt in her eyes, Kel had realized it. They needed another mage to test the pendant, thought Ilane, before she let her daughter ride off to battle trusting that the thing would work the way she’d been told it would. It was a pity there were none in the family, but she expected that Duke Baird would agree to help them.

She didn’t have the opportunity to speak to Thom until after the banquet that night. At first, she expected to find him in the knot of courtiers surrounding the royal family, but upon infiltrating that group, she saw the king deep in conversation with Lord Imrah and Thom’s shock of red hair nowhere in view. She talked with Shinkokami for a while, greeted the queen, and then broke away when he didn’t materialize.

He was somewhere nearby. She felt sure of that; she had seen him at the banquet, seated at his usual table and talking animatedly with Harailt of Aili. She had lost track of him in the movement from the banquet hall to the ballroom, but eventually she found him near the doors leading out into the garden, arguing with a visiting Carthaki mage. His eyes widened slightly when he saw her.

“Lady Ilane? To what do I owe the —”

“I’d like to speak with you for a moment, my lord, if I may. At your convenience, of course.”

“Of course,” he murmured, studying her face. She gazed back at him calmly, conscious of a keen predatory intelligence in his eyes. “Would you excuse us?” he said to the other mage, before turning and leading her away, toward the dance floor.

“The library next door, on the opposite side from the banquet hall,” he said quietly to her. “Ten minutes. Go out into the corridor as you normally would. I’ll find another way to get there.” He pivoted suddenly, vanishing into the crowd; a moment later, she caught a glimpse of his bright hair disappearing through one of the garden doors.

She continued her orbit of the ballroom as though nothing had happened, stopping to talk briefly with a few friends along the way. At one point, she stole a glance at the king, who was still in conversation with Lord Imrah. They had been joined by Alexander of Tirragen, who leaned over to say something to Roger as Ilane turned away, focusing her attention on Cythera of Naxen again.

Upon reaching one of the doors leading out into the corridor, she slipped through it and made her way to the library. Thom was already there, sprawled in a chair beside the fireplace. He glanced up from his book when she walked in, but didn’t stand up. She quietly shut the door behind her, and joined him by the fire.

She studied him for a moment before speaking. In many ways, he was still the arrogant young man she’d first met nearly twenty years ago, when she and Piers had come to the palace for the coronation. He studied her in turn, leaning his head back and stretching out long legs clad in cream-colored hose and gold slippers. The seed pearls embroidered over his blue-and-gold brocade tunic winked up at her; a sapphire glinted in his earlobe. Most of the courtiers dressed in flashier clothes now than they had when Roald was king, which strained the Mindelan treasury at times, but Thom stood out among them. And he still wore his mage robes like armor, as though he were daring someone to say something about them to his face, but at least he’d grown into his trim beard.

A swirl of rumors had preceded their first meeting, she recalled, when they were briefly introduced at some party or another during the months between the coronation and Roger’s wedding: that Thom had passed his exams for Mastery at the age of seventeen, which was the kind of thing that only mages out of legend did; that he was the king’s lover; that his twin sister had disguised herself as a boy to train for knighthood, had nearly made it to the Chamber of the Ordeal before she was caught, and had killed the crown prince after she was sent away from Corus in disgrace. At the time, Ilane had considered each of these stories in turn, weighing their likelihood against what she knew of the people involved, and come to her own conclusions.

The black-and-gold robes were self-evident; surely the other mages wouldn’t have let Thom wear them if he hadn’t actually passed his exams. And she’d seen the glances that passed between him and Roger when they thought no one was looking, or perhaps didn’t care if anyone looked, and felt a sharp pang of sympathy for Lady Delia. But she had never believed the story about Lady Alanna — or at least, not the way it ended. After all, she had seen the prince’s squire at court, too, in the early days of her marriage and Piers’s career as a diplomat, and she had heard the stories that swirled about Alanna then. They had never danced together at parties, or even spoken to each other, but they had both known Duke Baird. Alanna may have been foolhardy at times, but she was fiercely loyal to Prince Jonathan, and unlikely to have betrayed him. It wasn’t difficult to see the prince’s heir seated on the throne and guess where that particular rumor had come from.

“I wanted to thank you,” said Ilane, “for calling the watch when my daughter was missing from her exam.”

Thom’s expression remained neutral, though she saw an eyebrow twitch slightly. “Ah, you heard about that.”

“She told us everything, you know, about the gifts and the clandestine visits to your office.”

“Did she? I wouldn’t have used the word ‘clandestine’ myself.”

“I was, I’ll admit, initially alarmed to learn that a strange man had given my thirteen-year-old daughter jewelry.”

“Strange?” said Thom, frowning slightly. “But we _have_ met before, you and I. Didn’t we dance together once?”

“No,” said Ilane dryly. “It was suggested by our mutual friends, but you told me you had urgent business elsewhere in the palace and escaped through the door leading back into the banquet hall.”

“Ah.” He was silent for a moment. “Surely you don’t believe that _I_ have designs on your daughter. That isn’t what this is about at all.”

“No, I don’t think it is. But why don’t you explain it to me?”

He hesitated, and then raised a hand, drawing a quick design on the air in purple fire. For an instant, other pale sigils glowed faintly in the corners of the room. “Oh good, he hasn’t added any more. Do you know why I chose this room?”

“Are those listening spells?” Ilane asked quietly.

“Precisely,” he murmured. “I put them there myself, at the king’s request. One in every corner, he said. But this room has a peculiar acoustic quality: if you’re seated here, beside the fire, it’s hard for those to pick up what you’re saying. Go and stand in the corner, if you don’t believe me, and try to hear what I say from my chair.”

After the scene with the pendant in the Royal Forest, Ilane had the urge to test out whatever he said for herself, but that would be telling him she didn’t trust him. He already knew she didn’t trust him; someone like Thom went through life trusting nobody, and expecting to be repaid in kind.

“I believe you,” she said, hoping that was the right card to play. “This is about your sister, isn’t it?”

His eyes widened slightly. “Kel said that?” he asked lightly, as though he didn’t care.

“Only that you’d told her stories about her. But it’s the only reason I can see why you’d want to help her.”

He watched her for a moment, his face unreadable. “My sister would have done the same thing, if she’d been here. Given her advice. Told her how best to navigate page training, as a girl. But she isn’t here.”

“No, she isn’t,” said Ilane gently. She wondered precisely what had happened to Alanna. Kel hadn’t mentioned that, if she knew.

He shrugged. “I may have my faults — which just about anyone at court could describe for you at length — but I love my sister. She would have liked Kel, I think.”

“Perhaps they’ll meet someday.”

One corner of his mouth twitched in a faint, fleeting smile. “Perhaps. Are you satisfied I have no darker motive?”

Ilane hesitated. “To some extent. There’s an air of secrecy about your relationship with her that I didn’t like. I understand _why_ , of course. If Lord Wyldon had known, he would never have believed she’d made it this far on her own merits.”

She saw him glance toward the corner of the room again, and knew that Lord Wyldon wasn’t his real worry. Then he returned his gaze to her, smiling pleasantly. “That’s true. Which reminds me, I heard that old plank of wood is letting Kel take her exam tomorrow. I hope the king didn’t twist his arm too hard to get him to agree to that.”

“That resulted from a conversation between Wyldon and Duke Turomot. Why should the king have cared?”

Thom blinked. “Oh, he was outraged when he heard that a pair of children had to climb down the crumbling outer stair of his scrying tower, lest they be murdered by scoundrels on the grounds of his palace. You’re telling me Duke _Turomot_ thought she should take the exam?”

“That’s right,” she replied, enjoying the bewildered look on his face.

“Well . . . good luck to her, then. I’m afraid I won’t be there. Lord Wyldon’s already suspicious of me, and I wouldn’t like to jeopardize her relationship with him. _I’ll_ be in Port Caynn.”

“We should return to the ballroom,” she said, a little reluctantly. This conversation was more interesting than the ones she usually had at parties. “Will you be in Port Caynn for very long?”

He rose from his chair and, to her surprise, offered her his hand. “Hardly. Only a few days.”

She took his hand, letting him help her to her feet. “Safe travels, my lord. Do enjoy your trip.”

With no homework to finish that night, for once in their lives, Kel and the other new squires wandered the palace corridors, still basking in the memory of cherry pie and the acrobats Lord Wyldon had hired. They had been excused from service that evening so they could watch the performance, and now the night stretched out ahead of them, hazy with the late spring heat and gloriously free of all responsibility.

“Did you see the Stump’s face when they did that trick with the spinning plates?” asked Neal. He had led them in a roundabout sort of way to the portrait gallery, and now stood just beyond the doorway, scrutinizing a painting of some unsmiling, long-dead king.

Seaver shook his head. “I was too busy watching the plates.”

Beside him, Esmond glanced around. The crystal lamps mounted on the walls were beginning to dim for the night, leaving the corners of the long room in shadow. “Who do you think is going to be picked first?” he asked. “Do we have a bet going?”

Kel joined Neal beside the portrait he was studying, trying to figure out what century it was from. It looked old, but not so old as to be from some other ruling family. The dark hair and Conté blue eyes were unmistakable. “Lord Wyldon told me the knights may take their time choosing this year,” she said, “because of the congress and then the progress right after it. They’ll have more time to look us over. Who’s that?”

“Gareth the Stern,” Neal replied. “Ascended to the throne in 200 H.E.”

“No mystery why they called him that.”

“The real question,” said Jasson darkly, “is who’s going to be picked _last_.”

Seaver raised an eyebrow. “Not you, with the queen for an aunt.”

“Are you sure? My hands were shaking so badly during the archery test that I nearly dropped my arrow. Remember, I had to go _first_. I hate having everyone watch me do things.”

“So what? You still passed.” Seaver glanced around. “Where are the pictures of your family?”

Jasson made a face. “Over here. Come and see my uncle dressed in his hunting regalia, wearing the world’s stupidest hat.”

“I want to see this,” said Neal, turning abruptly away from Gareth the Stern.

“My father hinted that a knight might stop by to talk to me tomorrow morning,” he went on, as they followed Jasson over to a large portrait of King Roger posing in the snow beside a slaughtered buck, wearing gold-trimmed brown velvet, ermine-trimmed green velvet, and a hat that was part fur cap and part coronet. “He’s been rather mysterious about it. I hate it when Father gets mysterious. Great Mithros, you weren’t kidding about the hat.”

“It looks like it’s gnawing on his head,” Seaver remarked.

“I think one of my mother’s cousins might be persuaded to take me,” said Merric, sounding a little gloomy. “She said Sir Weston hasn’t said no yet. It’s a bad sign when your relatives have to be begged to take you as a squire, isn’t it?”

“Are your parents staying for the congress?” Jasson asked him, turning away from the portrait of the king and leading them deeper into the gallery. “Mine are. My grandfather doesn’t travel anymore, so he sends Father to negotiate for him.”

Neal snorted. “What are they negotiating over, rocks?”

He shook his head, smiling. “Fishing rights on the River Tirragen. There’s an ongoing feud over that; at the last congress, Lord Alexander told Father that if he liked rivers so much, he ought to go jump in the Olorun. This year they’re fighting over a salt mine, too. It’s more or less on the border between our land, Fief Tirragen, and Fief Shaila.”

Kel raised an eyebrow, remembering the stark red cliffs and dry gullies of Hill Country. She hadn’t realized there was so much to fight over there. They paused before a large portrait of the current royal family, all grouped together and dressed in varying shades of blue, silver, and white. She glanced up at it, and her eyes met those of a younger Gavain, who stood off to one side, wearing a plumed velvet cap and looking faintly embarrassed.

“When you say ‘more or less,’ what do you mean exactly?” asked Neal.

“One of Lord Shaila’s tenants found it, and technically most of it’s on his land, but Grandfather’s prepared to fight him barehanded for it.”

“Family dinners at your house must be so interesting.”

They continued to wander the portrait gallery, looking at various royal figures from the past, while Neal regaled them with tales of who was said to haunt which parts of the palace, and all around them the crystal lamps slowly dimmed. “I suppose we’re being told to go to bed,” Neal remarked at last, when they were standing in the dark beside a portrait of King Newlin III.

Kel stifled a yawn. “I won’t argue. I’m exhausted.”

“Of course you are,” he said pleasantly, as they picked their way through the darkened gallery toward the corridor beyond. “You had to dance for the judges all by yourself today.”

When she reached her room, Lalasa was in the act of taking the kettle off the fire for tea. Kel sipped at her willow tea, leafing through a book Neal had given her for Midwinter, until her eyelids began to feel too heavy to read another page. She was asleep within minutes of blowing out her lamp and crawling under the covers.

As usual, she awoke to birdsong in the gray light of early morning. The sparrows lined up on the windowsill to watch her practice dance, chattering as she spun and stamped her way to wakefulness. Afterward, she pulled on her practice clothes, gulped down the cup of green tea Lalasa had brewed for her, and went to meet Shinkokami and her ladies for their dawn naginata practice.

She wasn’t surprised to see her mother there as well, but she was surprised to see Jessamine. The princess wore a borrowed kimono and hakama; when Kel walked in, Shinkokami was showing her where to place her hands on the shaft. At the sound of footsteps, she glanced up and winked at Kel. Kel smiled at her, wondering whether the queen knew about this.

She was cautious with Jessamine at first, who put more power and precision into her attacks than Kel had expected. “You can hit me properly, I promise,” Jessamine told her after a while. “I used to take sword lessons with my brothers. I’m just a little rusty.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Kel, trying to relax more around her.

Jessamine joined the rest of them for breakfast in Shinkokami’s sitting room, but didn’t linger for long after she finished eating. “I’d better go change,” she said, as she got up from the table. “I’m meeting Jon in half an hour to go riding.”

“I know I should be more concerned about her learning how to use a naginata behind her mother’s back,” said Ilane later, as she and Kel left the royal wing together. “But she’s been getting along with Shinkokami so well. It’s nice seeing them together.”

When Kel got back to her rooms, Lalasa sat in the window seat, fixing a tear in a pair of practice breeches. “I’m going to be in the city tomorrow morning, my lady,” she reminded her, “so if you have any mending that needs doing right away, give it to me sooner rather than later.”

Kel nodded. “Where’s this shop you’re going to look at?”

Lalasa’s face brightened. “Just off of Fountain Street, near the Wave Walker’s temple. It’s a good-sized property.”

“I want to hear all about it tomorrow,” said Kel, surveying her archery gear before turning away. She didn’t feel like starting with archery today. “Don’t feel you have to hurry back, though. I’m sure I can get through _one_ day without ripping all my clothing.”

Lalasa smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind, my lady.”

Kel decided to practice her tilting first. It would wake her up, help her focus, and give her more time with Peachblossom before she was forced to give him up. A familiar muted sadness washing over her at that thought, she set off for Neal’s room. Shiro trotted after her, his tail held high.

The door was ajar. Inside, she found Neal stretched out on his bed, reading. “I’m heading off to the tilting yard,” she said, as Shiro bounced onto the bed. “Want to come with me?”

Neal scratched him behind the ears, but he didn’t glance up from his book. “Alas, I cannot.”

“Are you going to spend the whole day waiting around for that knight?”

“I’m afraid so,” he replied, with all the grave dignity of a Player delivering a tragic speech. “Father told me he was going to stop by today, but he didn’t specify when, so I’m obliged to wait.”

“You’re delighted about that, aren’t you?”

The book couldn’t entirely hide his grin. “You know me so well. I have to cram as much reading as I possibly can into this fleeting window of free time, before I commence four years obeying the call of some bruiser on a horse.”

Kel shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m going to go practice.”

She whistled to Shiro, and he followed her out into the corridor, down the stairs, and outside into the cool spring morning. Dew lingered on the grass, but she knew it would burn off soon as the sun rose higher in the sky. She didn’t expect any of the outdoor practice yards to be crowded today, now that the nobles’ congress was in session, but she wanted to get at least an hour of tilting in before the day got too hot.

It was still early days. The further she got from the big exams without receiving any offers, the worse she would feel, but for now that was in the future. A week would pass, and some of her friends would be chosen by knights, and then she’d start to worry. But surely someone would take her eventually, even if she was the girl.

“Ah, there you are,” said a man’s voice.

Kel turned, startled, and saw a small, dark figure striding toward her from the direction of the palace. “Good morning, my lord,” she said, as Alexander of Tirragen caught up to her.

“Good morning,” he replied, not smiling precisely, but looking pleased all the same. “Your maid said I’d find you somewhere near the practice yards.”

“Did you need me for something, sir?” she asked, thinking he might have a message for her to deliver. With the congress starting that morning, he was probably about to spend half the day in meetings, or possibly dueling Jasson’s father over some regional quarrel. He’d have little time for anything trivial.

He fell into step with her. “I wanted to talk to you, if you’re not too busy.”

She shook her head. “I’m not busy, sir.”

“I don’t have a lot of time today, but I wanted to speak to you before someone else snapped you up.”

She froze for a moment, and then hurried to catch up to him. “Sir?”

Lord Alexander turned to her, studying her face calmly. “Would you like to be my squire?”

Kel stared at him, not quite certain she’d heard him right. Her limbs felt vaguely foreign, as though she were occupying someone else’s body. She swallowed, wishing she had some water.

He gazed expectantly at her; at last his question finished sinking in. Something Gavain had once said occurred to her — that the king was considering either Lord Alexander or Lord Imrah for his knight-master. She couldn’t poach her friend’s knight-master. But then, would he have asked her if he had agreed to wait another year for Gavain to pass his exams? Perhaps the king had settled on Lord Imrah after all.

Why had he asked her? They hardly knew each other. But he _had_ asked her, and she couldn’t think of anyone else who was likely to, especially if they heard she’d turned down an offer from the King’s Champion. And she found that she really didn’t want to turn it down. He wasn’t a desk knight, like she feared she’d be stuck with; he wasn’t even an ordinary knight. He was the best swordsman in Tortall.

Kel cleared her throat, still feeling very strange. “Yes, sir, I would. I’d be honored.”

He smiled suddenly. “Good. Why don’t we take a walk over to the armory, while we talk things over?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't tell me you didn't see that coming.
> 
> Some dialogue is taken from both _Page_ and _Squire_.


	6. Parry and Riposte

**456 H.E.**

Kel followed Lord Alexander toward the palace armories, taking stock of the situation as they walked along. Shiro trotted beside her, cheerfully unaware of what had just transpired. It was still a cool spring morning, scarcely two hours past dawn. The day before, she had taken the big exams in front of a panel of unsmiling judges, with her family and friends in the audience. Now she was walking in the opposite direction of the stables, which had originally been her intended destination that morning, with her new knight-master, the King’s Champion. If this was a dream, it was certainly an odd one. She glanced at Shiro, waiting for him to start talking or transform into Neal.

“By my estimation, we have just over an hour before the congress is scheduled to meet,” said Lord Alexander. “Garnier would be disappointed if I were late to his biannual opportunity to swindle me.”

There was something different about him, thought Kel. She studied him out of the corner of her eye, trying to work out what it was. He was still clean-shaven, still wore his black hair cropped a little shorter than was fashionable for men at court. There was a touch of gray near his temples, and she couldn’t recall whether that had been there the first time they’d met, in one of the tilting yards after her first year as a page. No obvious recent injuries. He was dressed more for hard work than impressing other courtiers, in breeches, a white shirt, and a plain dark blue tunic, with his only jewelry a gold signet ring on one finger.

Then it dawned on her: he had grown shorter. At some point since the last time they’d met face-to-face, that summer in Hill Country, she had managed to not only match his height, but exceed it by an inch or two. That revelation did nothing to dispel the feeling of unreality about this day.

He glanced back toward Shiro, raising an eyebrow. “This lad seems to be following us. Yours?”

Kel nodded. In the end, Lord Wyldon hadn’t reprimanded her for keeping a dog, and anyway she was a squire now. “He’s very fond of all the pages and squires, but he sort of adopted me. He knows how to fight,” she added, suddenly worried that her knight-master might object to pets. “He followed us to Hill Country, and he fought with us against the bandits.”

Lord Alexander frowned, thinking. “Now that you mention it, I do remember hearing about that. He accounted for one of the riders, didn’t he?”

“Three riders, my lord.”

He studied Shiro with a faint smile. “Only three? He must have been holding back.” Then he shrugged. “So long as you keep your rooms clean. I don’t want dog hair all over the furniture. Do you own a sword?”

Kel shook her head, reeling a little from the sudden change of topic. “No, sir. The only weapon I own is a naginata, a Yamani polearm.” She watched his face as she said it. Lord Wyldon had never let her use her favorite weapon, but maybe Lord Alexander would be different.

He cocked his head slightly, his dark eyes brightening with interest. “I saw the Yamani ladies practicing with those once. We won’t need to get you a halberd, then. What about a longbow?”

“No, sir.”

He nodded, looking a little distracted, and she suspected he was cataloguing the supplies she’d need. “Armor?”

She shook her head, and then remembered one of Lord Thom’s gifts. “I have gauntlets.” He had given them to her at the end of her third year as a page, to match her arm guards.

“I’ll have a look at them later,” said Lord Alexander, as they walked into one of the palace armories together.

The forge wasn’t crowded this early in the day. It served the nobility, making bespoke armor for knights rather than the mass-produced gear the regular army wore. Kel had never been inside before, but she’d passed the building countless times on her way to the pages’ armory, where she had spent many hours of Sunday punishment work scouring mail, and knew the armorers who worked here well enough to wave to them as she walked by.

The boy working the bellows saw them walk in, and said something to one of the armorers. The man looked up, and then set down his hammer and rose to greet them. “Lord Alexander,” he said, “this is a surprise. If you’ve come for your parade armor, I’m afraid it’s not ready yet.”

“That’s all right, Angus, I’m not here about that. I came to introduce you to my new squire. Keladry, this is Angus Cartwright, master armorer. Angus, Keladry of Mindelan.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said Kel, as the armorer looked her over appraisingly.

“Plate or mail?” he said to Lord Alexander.

“Mail to start with.” Lord Alexander glanced at her. “I take it you’re still growing?”

“I believe so, my lord,” she said, a little dryly. In nearly four years, she had shot up from five foot even to five foot nine. It had been a trial for Lalasa.

“Leave a bit of room in the arms and legs, then.”

Briskly, she was fitted for a hauberk, cuirass, mail leggings, and a bascinet. “Gauntlets?” said Angus, as one of his assistants jotted down the length of her right arm.

Lord Alexander shook his head. “She has a pair. I haven’t seen them yet, though, so we may be back.” He turned to Kel, adding, “We’ll get you fitted for a gambeson and padded breeches tomorrow morning.”

“Yessir,” she replied, holding up her arm so that Angus could measure its circumference.

“If there’s time, we can get your saddle and tack then as well, unless you already own that.”

Sorrow shot through her, and she shook her head. “No, sir. Nor a horse.”

Lord Alexander frowned. “What happened to that big gelding you had?”

It was a challenge to keep her expression neutral, and her voice even. “We can’t afford to buy Peachblossom from the crown, my lord. I’ve agreed to leave him for the next class of pages.”

His frown deepened, but he didn’t reply.

“A gorget, my lord?” said the armorer.

Lord Alexander nodded. “Better throat protection than an aventail,” he told Kel, referring to the mail curtain she had seen hanging from the helms of some of the older knights. “It’s a lot lighter, too. Puts more weight on the shoulders, less on the head.”

“Everything should be ready within the week,” said Angus after his assistant had taken down the last of her measurements. “I’ll have it sent over.”

“Thank you.” Lord Alexander jerked his head toward the doorway, and Kel followed him outside.

“Congress will adjourn about two hours before dinner,” he told her, as they strode back toward the palace. “Regardless of how many brawls break out. For all his faults, Lord Martin is very punctual. Meet me at the outdoor practice court nearest the pages’ archery range, all right? Bring your practice sword. I want to get a little fencing in this afternoon.”

“Yessir.”

“I’ll have my man take some spare uniforms over to your maid today. I should have some that will fit.”

“Yessir,” she repeated, and then cleared her throat. There was something she had been wondering, throughout the whirlwind of armor fittings. “My lord, if you don’t mind my asking — why me?”

“Ah,” he said, halting abruptly. He studied her face for a moment, looking thoughtful. “You want to be a knight, and you’re willing to work for it. Half of your year-mates are only here because they’re the eldest son, or they like the idea of knighthood, the glory of it. I’d rather have a squire who really wants the job.”

She nodded, relieved to find that he saw her so clearly. He hadn’t asked her out of pity, or because one of her relatives had persuaded him — he understood her, and was interested in her for herself.

“On second thought,” he said, resuming his brisk stride toward the palace, “I’ll meet you in your room this afternoon. I want to get a look at your gauntlets sooner rather than later.”

“Yessir.”

When they parted ways outside the southeastern wing of the palace, Kel decided to set aside her plan to practice her tilting. Much as she wanted to spend the rest of the morning with Peachblossom, there was someone she needed to talk to right away. She cut through the kitchen gardens, headed for the pages’ wing.

She found Gavain reclining on his bed, engrossed in a book, in a near mirror of Neal’s pose earlier. At her knock, he glanced up curiously.

“I have something to tell you,” she said. “I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else.”

He sat up, frowning slightly, and set aside his book. “Well, come in and have a seat, then. What’s on fire?”

Taking a deep breath, she sat on the edge of his bed. “Lord Alexander of Tirragen asked me to be his squire.”

Gavain stared at her in silence for a moment, and then one corner of his mouth twitched. Then, to her surprise, he burst out laughing. “Oh gods, Kel, I’m so sorry.”

She frowned, puzzled. “I thought you’d be disappointed. Wasn’t he supposed to be your knight-master?”

He snorted. “ _Father_ might be disappointed. Probably not, though — I’m sure he cleared it already. Lord Alexander only jumps at his command.”

Her heart sank a little, but a general sense of confusion lingered. There were years of history here that she could only guess at; she felt as though she were wading into murky water, and didn’t want to step wrong. “Oh.”

His expression softened. “I’m sorry, that was cynical of me.”

“Cynicism is usually Neal’s job,” she agreed.

“That’s right, I’m not nearly as practiced at it.” He sighed. “The truth is, I’m relieved. I’d rather have Lord Imrah.”

She frowned. Imrah of Legann was a respected man at court, but he wasn’t the best swordsman in the country, and he wasn’t nearly as close to the royal family. She didn’t know him well, but he had a reputation not unlike Lord Wyldon’s: for being fair, but rather stern, even cold at times. “Why?” she asked.

He hesitated. “You have to understand, Kel, I took sword lessons from Lord Alexander when I was a child. We all did, even Jess. Father insisted on him training the boys, and she said that wasn’t fair and pleaded with him until he relented. She really took to the sword, too — he said she was a natural, like Jon. I wasn’t. I disappointed him constantly, and he made that clear to me, and to Father. I was _six_ when I started taking lessons from him. I remember having nightmares about him.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, thinking of the emperor’s training master, old Nariko. Kel had been six, too, when she had started studying with her.

His eyes widened slightly. “No, _I’m_ sorry. I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad. Gods, you were picked the _day_ after you took your exam!”

“Well, I did take it late,” she said, smiling a little.

“Yes, I saw the workmen repairing the outer stair,” he said dryly. “They certainly got to work fast.”

“It helps that the congress has started. With the palace grounds practically deserted, they can be more efficient.”

He smiled. “You know, I actually think you’ll do well with him. You don’t talk back to people like Neal does, and you don’t take things as personally as I do. And you get on well enough with Lord Wyldon. Lord Alexander — isn’t so different, in a lot of ways.”

“How did your cousin like him?” she asked, remembering suddenly that Jasson’s brother had been his last squire.

Gavain’s eyebrows ascended slightly. “Lerant? Oh, he talked back. They didn’t get on very well. Still, his sword work _has_ drastically improved, which was the outcome Mama and Uncle Garnier wanted when they arranged the match.”

Kel frowned, turning that over in her mind. “What else should I know about Lord Alexander?”

He considered that. “What he values more than anything is skill. He’ll be fair to you, I think. I don’t think he’ll care that you’re a girl or who your family is, or anything like that, so long as you can fight well. But he isn’t _nice_ , and he tends to expect more from people than they can give.”

That was more or less in keeping with what she knew of him, from his reputation at court and from the two conversations they’d had over the past four years. “I don’t mind having a stern knight-master. I just want a good one, and someone who’s not a desk knight.”

“Well, he certainly isn’t a desk knight,” said Gavain dryly. “Mind you, if you asked Jon or Jess, they’d give you a more flattering picture of him.”

Kel nodded. Once or twice, she had heard Jessamine mention someone she called Uncle Alex. “I should let you get back to your book,” she said. “I know Lord Wyldon’s dragging you off on your field trip tomorrow, and I want to get some tilting in before lunch.”

He made a face. “Yes, we’re off to the Scanran border this year, gods help us.”

“I’ll see you at lunch,” she said, smiling as she rose to her feet. She had survived four years with Lord Wyldon; she knew she could survive her knight-master as well.

She returned from the stable in melancholy spirits, having nearly dissolved into tears as she was brushing down Peachblossom. When she reached her room, she found Lalasa in the window seat, working on a gown for one of the queen’s ladies. She glanced up when the door opened, frowning. “What’s wrong, my lady?”

Kel tried to smooth her features, a little annoyed that Lalasa knew her well enough to see through the mask. “I got an offer,” she said, closing the door behind her. “I was saying goodbye to Peachblossom, that’s all.”

Lalasa shifted on the window seat, moving the gown in her lap out of the way, and Kel sat down beside her. “I’m so sorry,” she said, hesitating for a moment before sliding her arm around Kel. “I think I have enough money. Perhaps I could —”

Kel tensed, alarmed. “Oh no. I won’t hear of you trying to buy him for me, not when you have your shop to think of. And it isn’t a one-time cost. You have to pay to feed and house a warhorse for _years_.”

“All right, I won’t,” said Lalasa, and Kel relaxed against her. “Tell me about your new knight-master, my lady.”

To distract herself, Kel began to do just that, telling her everything she knew about Lord Alexander, and about getting fitted for armor. After a little while, to her discomfort, tears began spilling from Lalasa’s eyes.

“Don’t cry,” said Kel automatically.

She retrieved a handkerchief from somewhere beneath the gown she had been working on and dabbed at her eyes, beaming at Kel through her tears. “I’m just so proud of you. I _knew_ you’d get an offer before I had a shop of my own. Now I don’t have to worry about leaving you alone.”

She blew her nose, and then began folding the gown in her lap in a businesslike manner. “I’ll need to get started on your dress uniforms right away.”

“I think Lord Alexander’s man is bringing over some spare ones.”

Lalasa shook her head. “Those rough-and-tumble boys he’s had as squires before will have ruined the velvet. No, you ought to have new uniforms. And you’re not to bring anything to those sack-stitchers at the palace tailors’ — your things will come straight to me, and not a penny will I take for the work.”

“Surely you’ll be too busy to work on my clothes,” Kel protested.

“Never,” she said fiercely. “Never, ever.”

Kel hugged her around the shoulders before getting up. “I’d better hurry, or I’ll be late for lunch.”

She found Neal waiting for her in the mess hall. He sat at the squires’ table with his tray, drumming his fingers nervously on the wood beside it. “Well, I took the offer,” he said, as she set her tray down beside his. “There goes all my free time.”

She grinned at him. “That’s wonderful. Who?”

“Sacherell of Wellam,” he replied, running his hand through his hair to make it stand on end. Part of her longed to push it back in order, but she tried to ignore that urge. “He seems like a decent sort, and his lady’s a healer — a powerful one, Father says. He’s worked with her before, and he thought I should take the offer.”

That explained why Duke Baird had asked Neal to wait around all morning; he had arranged the match, and it was a better one than Kel had worried he might get. She had worried about him being stuck with an ordinary knight, with no patience for his flare for drama and no healing magic to teach him.

It had scared her when Merric had been wounded in the fight with the hill bandits, and Neal hadn’t been able to do anything more than stop the pain. It had scared Neal, too, she thought. She had seen the mourning clothes that Duke Baird had worn for his second son during their first year as pages; she knew, on some level, why Neal had left the City of the Gods to start his page training — one older brother killed in battle with Scanran raiders, the other gravely injured by a hurrok that same autumn, while Neal was snowed in at school without any word of whether Sir Graeme had survived. He had told her once that his brothers had thought knighthood was the greatest service they could give to the crown. He must have decided he’d do more good as a knight who could heal than as a healer alone, during those long months before the snow thawed; she wondered how often he regretted that choice.

“Sir Sacherell says we’ll spend enough time at his fief for her to give me some real training,” Neal went on. “It’s probably the best offer I was going to get, but even so —”

“Good,” said Kel, pouring herself some juice from the pitcher on the table. If she didn’t interrupt him, she knew he’d make himself dizzy worrying about whether or not he’d made the right choice. “That’s wonderful, that you’ll get more training as a healer while you’re still a squire. I got an offer, too,” she added, as Lord Wyldon walked into the mess hall and they rose obediently from their seats.

Neal looked surprised, and then delighted. “To think I only left you alone for a couple of hours. Who made you an offer?”

She told him, and he sat down hard again.

As Lord Wyldon turned to glare in their direction, Neal jumped to his feet, his eyes wide. “And you let me _talk_ ,” he hissed at her.

After their training master had finished his prayer and they had sat down again, he continued, “You let me just go on and on about my knight-master, without saying a word about yours. Gods all bless, the King’s Champion. _That’s_ going to shut plenty of the conservatives up.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, as she began to eat. After an hour of tilting, she was famished.

“They might not like him personally, but he’s still one of the most respected knights in Tortall. He’s won more than enough duels against equally well-respected knights to have earned his position. And his proximity to the king means you’ll be in public view most of the time, especially during the progress.”

Most of Kel’s attention was on her roast chicken. “That’s good, is it?”

“It’s going to make it harder for people to claim you’re cheating somehow, with everyone watching you.”

“As though she would,” put in Esmond from across the table, and Kel smiled at him.

“Can we keep this something of a secret for a while?” asked Jasson. “I want to be there to see the look on Lerant’s face when he finds out.”

Kel shrugged. She didn’t even know Sir Lerant, except by sight. “I certainly won’t be telling him, but you’ll have to hurry. I think Lalasa’s already started working on my new dress uniforms.”

After lunch, she returned to the stable and saddled Peachblossom for a ride through the Royal Forest. He tossed his head irritably as she checked his hooves, as if confused to find this happening again so soon after the last time, or else disturbed by her somber mood, but he calmed down when she gave him the apple she’d saved from lunch.

It was cooler in the forest, with the canopy to keep off the heat of the midday sun, and she was glad for the solitude. Just her and her horse, for the last time. She wondered what her new destrier would be like, but didn’t want to spend much time thinking about it. They would meet soon enough, when Lord Alexander took her to visit one of his stables.

When she returned to the pages’ stable, she found Stefan Groomsman standing beside Peachblossom’s stall, clutching a piece of paper. He glanced up at the sound of their footsteps, and a look of mingled relief and unease passed over his face. “Ah, there you are, my lady. I was worried when I saw him gone.”

Kel frowned. “Why? What’s that?”

“No harm in you seeing it, I suppose,” he said, handing her the paper. “You’ll find out soon enough anyway. A messenger brought it over from the palace not ten minutes ago.”

She unfolded the note and read it: a few lines, scrawled in an unfamiliar hand, requesting a meeting with Stefan tomorrow afternoon to discuss the purchase of the gelding Peachblossom. Dumbstruck, she read and reread it, and then spent a moment just staring at her knight-master’s signature. “He _never_ said anything about this.”

Stefan cocked his head, frowning slightly. “You know Lord Tirragen, then?”

“To some extent,” she replied. “He’s my knight-master.”

She saw his shoulders relax, as a smile broke across his face. “I wondered,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t think of another reason a knight would want to buy him, if not for you. I know nothing’s settled until the papers are signed, but I’m that relieved. It broke my heart to think of parting you two.”

Kel nodded, still feeling bewildered, and handed the note back to him. “I’d better tend to Peachblossom,” she said.

Brushing him down helped to ground her; by the time she returned to the palace, she felt almost normal again. When she reached her room, she found Lalasa sitting beside a stack of neatly folded dark clothes, hemming a pair of black breeches. “Lord Alexander’s man guessed at your size well enough,” she remarked, reaching for the uniform on the top of the stack. “Here, my lady, try this on.”

Kel changed clothes a surprising number of times before hearing the knock on the door. Lalasa, who had clearly been busy that afternoon, went to answer it. “Come in, my lord,” Kel heard her say, as she carefully removed her tunic, trying not to disturb any of the pins Lalasa had stuck in it. “She’s trying on her new uniforms now.”

When Kel emerged from the dressing room, wearing her practice clothes, she found Lord Alexander standing beside the hearth, examining her collection of Yamani waving cat figures on the mantelpiece. Hearing her footsteps, he turned. “Is this your polearm?” he asked, nodding toward her practice glaive, which stood in the corner. “May I see it?”

“Yessir.” She retrieved the live weapon, passed it to him, and stood back.

Her knight-master examined the teak staff and polished steel blade with interest, plucking a hair from his head to test the latter. Nodding with approval, he tested the balance of the glaive on his finger, and then tried a few passes with it, wielding it as though it were a staff.

“I like it,” he said, as he returned it to her. “How long have you been training with this?”

“Since I was six, my lord.”

“Best stick with it, then. Could I see your gauntlets now?”

She brought him the arm guards as well. As he examined her gear, the impassive face he usually presented to the world began to give way to a frown, until he looked strangely puzzled. Was something wrong with them? Kel hadn’t been able to find anything amiss, and she remembered Lord Thom saying that he’d asked a knight for advice when choosing her gifts.

“These are very good,” Lord Alexander said at last, handing them back to her. “I can’t give you better. Where’s your practice sword?”

She went to retrieve it, wondering whether she’d imagined his puzzled frown. He was certainly hard to read. It occurred to her, as she followed him out of the room, that perhaps that was what _she_ looked like to most people, with the neutral mask she’d learned to wear at the emperor’s court.

“Did you send Stefan Groomsman a message about buying Peachblossom?” she asked, as they went down the stairs together, Shiro trotting after them.

Lord Alexander glanced at her. “Ah. You visited the stable.”

“Yessir.”

“No sense in you losing a good horse. Not when you already know you work well together.”

For a moment she couldn’t speak. She swallowed, and finally managed to say, “Thank you, my lord. That’s very generous.”

He shrugged. “It’s my duty to provide you with a warhorse.”

But it wasn’t the usual way of things, she thought, as she followed him outside. Usually knight-masters provided their squires with horses from their own stables. Still, she wasn’t going to argue with him.

With Midsummer drawing near, the sun was still hours from setting. The breeze had picked up as the afternoon wore on toward evening, blowing away some of the heat of the day. Lord Alexander led her through the lengthening shadows to one of the training yards used by knights for sword and staff practice. “Go ahead and stretch out,” he said.

First she turned to Shiro, who had followed them into the training yard. “This is a game,” she told him, quietly but firmly. “Stay right there. Don’t help me.” He sat down beside the fence to watch them, his tail thumping against the dirt.

She took her time stretching, not wanting to pull a muscle because she’d been too eager to start. When she was finished, she picked up her practice sword and stepped into position opposite Lord Alexander, in the middle of the training yard. Her balance was good, the packed earth dry but not overly hard. They saluted each other with their swords, and then he struck.

Kel parried just in time. She slid her blade away from his, aiming for his collarbone, but he blocked her attack with ease. She fell back, watching him warily. He was about her size, like most of the opponents she’d fought before, but he was stronger and much faster. She would be hard-pressed to do anything but defend herself.

She feinted a low strike, but he didn’t fall for it. “Good instinct,” he said, as she blocked his answering attack. “Some people forget to go for the legs.”

He didn’t sound at all out of breath. Kel parried another strike, thinking that he could probably finish her off and fight ten more squires before he even broke a sweat.

Every time she saw an opening, his blade was there to close it before hers could touch him. Used to sparring with her classmates, it wasn’t long before she felt the beginnings of frustration. Frustration made her sloppy. She thought she nearly had him — the tip of her sword ghosted over the front of his tunic — then he blocked her easily. Before she could retreat, his blade moved like a snake, twisting gracefully around hers, and gently touched her collarbone.

“First blood,” he said quietly. “Want to go again?”

Kel took stock. She was breathing a little harder now than before they’d started, but her muscles were far from sore. She couldn’t let herself get frustrated again; she’d never improve if she only fought people close to her skill level. “Yessir.”

“Try attacking more,” he told her, and she nodded.

As they returned to the center of the training yard, she glanced over at the fence and saw that some of the younger knights had gathered to watch them. Wonderful, she thought, an audience is just what I wanted. She moved into guard position, fixing her attention on her knight-master.

If this had been a dance, she would say he was letting her lead this time. She tried to surprise him, mixing up her attacks, but he blocked her every time, or dodged away.

She tried another low feint, heartened when he moved as though to block it. Then his blade darted away and struck again. She parried almost too late. Pivoting to the side, Kel got out of his way, and he followed her. Seeing an opening, she lunged in.

He blocked her, twisted his sword away from hers, and struck. This time the tip of his blade touched her chest. He stepped back, lowering his sword. “Well done, Keladry.”

“Thank you, sir,” she replied, trying not to think about how many knights had just watched her lose twice, in quick succession, to the greatest swordsman in Tortall.

“Another bout?”

Garlands of late spring flowers hung on the walls of the ballroom, and crystal lamps blazed in delicate glass sconces. The doors to the garden were thrown open, letting in the cool night air. Kel was glad for it as she circled the room slowly, carrying a tray laden with cups of fruit juice and iced wine. She wore one of her new dress uniforms: an aubergine velvet tunic, black silk hose, and a dark gray shirt with full sleeves. Lalasa had tailored it to fit her perfectly, though she regretted not having had the time to make an entirely new uniform herself, with her own materials, in a single afternoon. Still, the quality of the fabric had met with her approval, and Kel was just happy not to be wearing a standard palace squire’s uniform.

When he’d seen her in the serving room earlier, Neal’s eyebrows had shot up. “Who died?” he’d murmured.

“Very funny,” she’d whispered, trying not to attract Master Oakbridge’s attention. He was wearing his new knight-master’s colors as well, though his tunic looked slightly too big for him. She straightened it, so that his shirt collar showed evenly.

After the courtiers entered the ballroom, they had little time to talk. Neal wandered through the crowds with another tray of drinks, looking as bored as she felt. The musicians playing in one corner of the room were a small distraction, as was her knight-master when he appeared out of nowhere, his footsteps as silent as a cat’s. He took a cup of iced wine from her tray, looking as though he were on his way to the gallows.

“Good evening, my lord,” said Kel.

“Look at the crowd around Roger,” he said, grimacing. “At this rate I’ll have to wait hours for it to thin.”

Kel followed his gaze. The king sat near the garden doors at the far end of the room, resplendent in crimson. Beside him sat the queen, wearing white and gold and talking to one of her ladies. On the king’s other side sat the crown prince, who by the looks of it was trying to charm Shinkokami.

Frowning, Kel watched the Yamani princess smooth the painted fan in her lap. As lively and talkative as Shinko had been at their dawn naginata practice, she looked stiff and formal in public, and Kel didn’t blame her. She knew how uncomfortable it was being in a foreign land, around new people with strange customs.

“I think I’ll go for a walk in the garden,” said Lord Alexander. “It’ll be quieter out there.” He took his cup of wine with him.

Kel circled the ballroom, keeping an eye on Shinkokami and Jonathan. She had noticed that when he got nervous, or when he was faced with another person’s silence, the prince grew more talkative. Right now he was dominating the conversation with his betrothed, though whenever someone else came by to talk to him, he latched onto them. Kel was near the royal family when two of his friends among the older squires approached him — near enough to see the look of relief that passed quickly over Jonathan’s face.

Shinkokami also looked far more interested when other people came to talk to her. Yuki drifted over frequently, as did Lady Haname when she could extract herself from a cluster of male admirers. At one point, Kel saw her mother and Prince Eitaro’s wife talking with her, and the princess looked more animated than she had during her entire conversation with Jonathan.

Kel was returning from the serving room with a fresh tray of drinks when her mother hailed her. Dressed in a bronze gown that Lalasa had made, Lady Ilane looked very fine that evening. “What’s this?” she said, smiling. “You’re not wearing a palace squire’s uniform tonight. Someone made you an offer?”

“Hello, Mama,” said Kel, feeling a little shy. After years of seeing her mother tower over most people, including Kel’s father, it was still odd being almost at eye level with her.

Her mother’s smile faded. “Are you wearing Tirragen colors?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Well!” For an instant Kel thought she saw dismay on her mother’s face, or perhaps only surprise, before Lady Ilane got her expression under control. “That’s wonderful. Do you like him?”

Kel nodded slowly, wondering what precisely lay behind that reaction. “He isn’t overly talkative, but he seems nice enough. He’s going to buy Peachblossom.”

Her mother blinked. “Is he indeed?”

“He says so. He asked to meet with Stefan Groomsman about it.”

“Well,” said Ilane, looking momentarily lost for words. “Well, good. Your father and I are very proud of you.” She squeezed Kel’s shoulder briefly, smiling again. “I should let you get back to your duties now, but I’ll try to find you again before the party ends.”

Kel went back to circling the room slowly with her tray, offering drinks to the brightly dressed lords and ladies she passed. Nearing the royal family again, she happened upon Thom of Trebond. He stood scowling at the edge of the crowd gathered around the king, looking dramatic in a cloth-of-gold tunic, violet hose, and voluminous black-and-gold robes. His expression changed when he saw her, softening into a look of confusion.

“I thought you were in Port Caynn, my lord,” she said, holding out her tray to him.

He reached for a cup of iced wine. “Oh, I just got back. I couldn’t endure another night at that blasted inn. Thought I’d stop by and say hello to the king before I went back to my rooms and collapsed.” He took a sip of his drink, waving his hand vaguely to indicate her new uniform. “Who died?”

“No one, my lord. I’m wearing my new knight-master’s colors. I’m afraid I didn’t take your advice about that.”

His eyes widened, and his pale face seemed to grow a little paler. His free hand came up to hide his mouth, which had opened slightly, in the way the Yamani ladies used their fans to hide their expressions. “Oh,” he said simply, before taking another long drink from his cup.

“In my defense,” said Kel, “nobody else made me an offer.”

“Well, it stands to reason you’d take the first offer you got.”

“I had no reason to think anyone else would make me a better one,” she agreed.

“Still, those colors don’t really suit you. Besides, I wasn’t aware you even knew Alex.”

“We met briefly in the training yards, when I was a page.”

His eyebrows rose. “Ah. You kept that up your sleeve. Is he here right now, do you know? The king would be very upset to discover he’s planning to hide in his rooms all night.”

“He went out into the garden, but I don’t know if he’s still there.”

“I’ll have a look,” said Lord Thom, taking a second cup of wine with him.

Kel moved on, offering drinks to a crowd of Yamani delegates gathered nearby. Her tray had begun to grow empty again; she would have to make her way back over to the serving room before she circled the room again. On her way there, Yuki stopped her. “If you have time,” she said, “would you stop and talk to Her Highness for a while? She and the prince are running out of things to say to each other.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you,” said Yuki, and Kel saw relief in her usually merry eyes. “All these parties are starting to wear on her, I think, and it’s hard for her to relax around the prince. She’s too worried she’ll say something he might find unmaidenly.”

Kel remembered Shinko saying something to that effect a few weeks ago, during one of their conversations over tea. She got her chance to talk to the princess during her next lap around the room. The crowd around the royal family had thinned out somewhat, and Lady Haname was talking with Shinkokami. Kel made her way over to them. 

“Keladry!” said the princess, brightening when she saw her. “I noticed you earlier across the room. You look very nice. Your mother said that a knight has asked you to be his squire?”

“That’s right,” said Kel, shifting her weight to hold the tray more comfortably. She glanced around quickly, in case someone else wanted a drink, and discovered that the queen was watching her intently. Startled, Kel did her best to bow to her without overturning the tray.

“Have your duties changed much?” asked Shinkokami. “Will you still be able to come to practice in the mornings?”

Kel offered her a drink, but the princess shook her head. “I should be able to, so long as I’m at the palace or with the progress. I believe we’ll be spending a lot of time with the progress.”

Shinko smiled, looking relieved. “I hope you’ll enjoy it. His Highness has been telling me about some of the entertainments planned. Tell me, have you ever seen a tournament?”

“Once. I expect I’ll see many more while we’re on progress.”

“I’m looking forward to it. His Highness has described a joust to me, but I confess I can’t quite picture it.” She glanced at her betrothed, running her fingers over the fan spread over her lap. “Well, I should let you return to your duties. I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”

Promising she would, Kel bowed to her and to the royal family. The queen was in conversation with Jessamine now, who had returned from the dance floor while Kel was talking to Shinkokami. Neither of them seemed to take any notice of her, but she was sure that she hadn’t just imagined the queen staring at her earlier.

Kel tried to put the incident out of her mind, as she went back to making her rounds of the ballroom. It wasn’t as though she could _ask_ the queen about it, so it was better to just move on.

Fifteen, perhaps twenty minutes of silence and peace were all that Alex wanted, really, before he had to creep back into the ballroom and try again. The list of things that needed to be done over the next few weeks stretched out before him: dance attendance on the king, dance with Prince Eitaro’s wife as he’d promised Roger he would do, try not to fall asleep during the congress, outfit his new squire and begin her training, make sure their things were packed in time for the Grand Progress . . .

He didn’t get his fifteen minutes of peace. After barely ten minutes of standing in the garden among the ornamental hedges, breathing in the night air, he heard footsteps. He turned.

“Here,” said Thom, thrusting a cup of chilled wine at him. “Get your hand off your dress sword, Alex, this isn’t a confrontation. That thing looks decorative anyway.”

“It isn’t.” Alex stepped out of guard position, set his empty cup of wine down on a bench, and took the full one from Thom’s hand. “I thought you were in Port Caynn.”

“I just got back,” said Thom airily.

“You have excellent timing. The Naxens are apoplectic you missed the opening day of the congress.”

Thom shrugged. In his dark robes, with just a hint of light from the ballroom reflecting off his red hair, he looked like a wraith in the darkness. “Perhaps they should pay a visit to Duke Baird, then. Reminds you a bit of Carthak in there, doesn’t it?” he went on, with a brittle edge to his voice. “Foreign delegates, delightful entertainments, all of us making polite conversation and trying to pretend we wouldn’t stab each other in the back.”

Alex studied what he could see of his expression, frowning, and took a sip of wine. “On the bright side, I don’t have bird shit in my hair this time. What are you doing out here, anyway? Just go talk to Roger for a bit and then go to bed.”

“I notice that you’ve taken a new squire.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “Yes? What do you care?”

“I’m curious as to your motives,” he said in a low voice, taking a step closer.

Alex stayed where he was, letting Thom be secretive if he wanted to be. “Well, I need someone to look after my horses and gear, and Lerant already passed his Ordeal.”

“You’ve never previously shown any interest in advancing the rights of women, so I doubt there’s any underlying progressive agenda here, but it’s not as though you’re related in any way to the Mindelan girl either, at least as far I’m aware. You’re going to ruin her reputation, you know. An unmarried man with a female squire? That’s going to be a disaster; the gossips must be going wild already. I urge you to reconsider. Why not trade squires with someone?”

Alex shut his eyes for a moment, trying to will away the beginnings of a headache. “Are you finished talking?” He drank some more of the wine Thom had brought him, but it didn’t help.

“For the moment,” said Thom, sounding amused. “Of course, I could start up again at any time. I’m unpredictable like that.”

Alex studied him again in the darkness, frowning thoughtfully. Thom had never taken an interest in any of his squires before — not until he’d taken a female one. His frown deepened as he remembered looking over Keladry’s oddly familiar gauntlets and arm guards.

A few years back, Thom had made a habit of periodically asking him detailed questions about knights’ gear. At the time, when Alex had asked him why he was suddenly curious about such things, Thom had only raised an eyebrow and said, “Well, you know what everybody says about me and knights. Is it so hard to believe I wanted to get one of them a gift?”

“It was you, wasn’t it?” said Alex, setting down his second cup beside the first. “You bought her some of her gear.”

Thom frowned. “Why were you pawing through Kel’s things?”

“ _Kel_?” he repeated, shocked by the nickname. “Thom, I’m her knight-master. I had to look over her gear to make sure it was all right. Why were you giving her gifts? _You’re_ not related to her either.”

Thom took another step closer. “Do I really need to explain why I wanted to help a girl become a knight?” he murmured.

Alex stared at him for a moment. His face was in shadow; his hair was almost dark, lit only by the distant glow from the ballroom. He was so close now that Alex could smell his soap and his beard oil: clean, faintly spicy scents that reminded him, oddly, of dry grass and starlight. “No,” said Alex quietly, breathing in the scent of him. “I suppose not.”

Thom smiled ruefully. “I’m so predictable, aren’t I? You aren’t, though. I thought you hated my sister.”

Hate was the wrong word for how he’d felt about Alanna. He wasn’t Roger; he had only wanted to prove he was better than her at something. Everyone had liked her right away, when she had first appeared at the palace. Alex had always been quiet, always held part of himself back; his skill with a sword was all he had, really, and she had tried to take that from him. But he had never hated her, not exactly. “Where did you get that idea?” he asked, curious.

“We wrote to each other constantly when we were growing up,” said Thom, sounding amused. “She told me about the time you broke her collarbone with a practice sword.”

He hadn’t thought of that day in years. He stood very still for a moment, recalling the way she had dodged his blade and then struck, quick as a snake; he recalled the stinging welt on his cheek, the haze of rage that had come over him. “Oh,” he said softly, reconsidering his relationship with Thom over the years. It changed things, somehow, that Thom had always known the worst side of him, and evidently hadn’t cared.

Thom cocked his head slightly to one side. “I’ve long been curious — did you know what you were doing then?”

“I lost my temper.”

“Did you really?”

He remembered Alanna telling him she had seen orange fire around him, on the day Jon had died. Her certainty that Roger had enchanted him. Did Thom know about that, too? What else had she told him?

“What are you suggesting?” he asked, his voice sounding cold to his ears. “That I was _trying_ to kill her? I lost my temper, that’s all.”

“Mm,” said Thom, evidently unconvinced. “Who salted the ice?”

Alex remembered, suddenly, the crack of the ice over the pond, Alanna’s sharp yelp before the splash. Before he knew what he was doing, he had seized Thom’s arm, shoving him back against a hedge.

Thom went, yielding to him without protest. He felt his fingers tighten around Thom’s slender bicep, the comparative delicacy of his limbs, and hesitated. He had never touched Thom in anger before; he rarely touched him at all.

“Are you going to hurt me, Alex?” Thom murmured, a small smile playing over his lips. “You know I can hurt you right back.”

Alex let go of his arm and stepped back, breathing hard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t —”

“You didn’t mean to? I know.” In the darkness, he saw Thom’s smile widen. “You just lost your temper again, that’s all. Are you afraid to show any other emotion besides anger? Do you believe people will think you’re unmanly?”

“I’m leaving now,” said Alex, taking another step back. “And I’m not switching squires with anyone.”

“Very well, run away,” said Thom airily, sitting down on the bench. He crossed one ankle over his other knee and took a sip from the cup of wine Alex had abandoned there. “Next time you shove me up against something, though, do make it a wall. There was a branch stabbing me in the back.”

There was a husky note of innuendo in his voice that sent an odd surge of relief through Alex. No hard feelings, then. “I’m not shoving you up against a wall,” he replied dryly. “You’d enjoy that far too much.”

Thom chuckled. “You know, Alex, self-denial is terribly old-fashioned nowadays. We live in a new age of hedonism.”

“No doubt.”

“Good night, then,” Thom said, and took another sip of wine.

As he strode away, back toward the lighted ballroom, Alex realized why the scent of Thom’s soap and beard oil had reminded him so vividly of a dry grassland by night. He had worn the same scents back in Carthak, five years earlier. Alex had smelled them on his belongings throughout the voyage across the Inland Sea, lurking under the stronger notes of salt air and fish; he had breathed them in at banquets, whenever Thom had leaned in close to say something to him over the noise of the crowd. The most vivid memory they conjured up, though, was the night before Ozorne had died.

After the banquet, after the rats had poured out of the cake over the terrace flagstones, he had found himself wandering the Hall of Bones again with Thom. “To clear our heads after _that_ ordeal,” he remembered Thom saying, as their footsteps echoed through the empty hall. “I may never eat cake again.”

Reaching the far end of the hall of mammoths without having encountered anyone else, they had paused in front of the preserved skeleton of a great cat with teeth like scimitars. “Is tonight the night?” Thom had asked him then.

“If it’s ready. Should we be talking about this here?”

Thom raised a hand, briefly showing him the wall of purple fire that encircled them both. “Oh, it’s all right, no one can hear us. Say whatever you like.”

Then he had passed him the knife, his hand briefly finding Alex’s in the relative darkness of the hall. “Don’t cut yourself with it,” he advised him, his voice very dry.

Alex drew the blade from its sheath, examining it with interest. By all appearances, it was just an ordinary belt knife, not the mage-killer he’d been promised. “You’re sure this will incapacitate him before he has the chance to attack me?”

“So long as you break the skin. Do try not to make it too gory, though. We don’t want to be _that_ obvious.” Thom studied him for a moment, frowning, and then sighed. “You realize that if you’re caught by the palace guard, I’ll almost certainly be implicated? And then we’ll both be hanged, or beheaded, or whatever they do here. And if we somehow succeed, then we’re monsters who are about to get an innocent man executed. Either way, we lose.”

“Think how many innocent people would die if we went to war with Carthak.”

Thom smiled unhappily. “Oh, I see. All for the greater good, is it?”

Alex slid the blade back into its sheath, and hung it from his belt beside his own knife.

“This is a terrible plan, you know,” said Thom, catching him by the hand again. “I have a different terrible plan. Let’s run away together.”

“What?” said Alex, but for some reason, he didn’t pull away.

He remembered Thom gazing bright-eyed at him in the dim light, a smile playing over his lips. “If we leave now, we can be out of the city before they even notice we’re gone. We could head south, see the savannas of Ekallatum, the lights over the southern pole. East to Yamut, and catch a boat to Jindazhen. We could see the Roof of the World together.”

He said it all in a low, breathless rush, his words all but tripping over themselves in their hurry to get out, with his eyes fixed on Alex’s. Under the force of his gaze, Alex felt himself starting to blush, to his horror. He tried to look away, or step back, but he found himself strangely immobile.

Thom blinked. “We’d sleep out under the stars, and you could hunt antelopes for our supper,” he said, his thumb rubbing tight circles over the base of Alex’s palm.

It was a ridiculous idea, a staggeringly idiotic idea, but for a few moments, with his hand in Thom’s, Alex let himself imagine it, picturing the shimmering bands of color over the southern savanna, smelling the campfire and the dry grass mingled with the scent of Thom’s soap and beard oil.

“You hate sleeping out under the stars,” he pointed out.

“True. But I’d much rather be curled up in the dirt with you than awaiting execution with you.” One of Thom’s fingertips trailed over Alex’s wrist, slipping under the cuff of his shirt, and Alex shivered. “I could send a couple of simulacra west to cover our tracks. Mine won’t have my Gift, of course, so it won’t fool anyone for long — but by the time they figure out the ruse, we’ll be long gone.”

“I should go,” said Alex, pulling his hand away at last, before his body betrayed him again. “There’s work to be done.”

He remembered Thom sighing heavily at that, but not looking at all surprised by his refusal. “Very well. I’ll see you at our trial, then.”

But the palace guard had never come knocking on their doors. In the emperor’s study they had found the forged letter Alex had placed there, detailing the emperor’s suspicions about his old friend; in the city, later that day, they had caught Numair Salmalín wandering alone through the marketplace.

There had been nothing honorable about what they’d done, nothing just or fair — but they had stopped a war, and put a better man than Ozorne on the Carthaki throne. Remembering that helped Alex sleep at night, when his mind decided to replay Ozorne’s or Numair’s last moments for him in the darkness.

That night, when he drifted off to sleep at last after talking a while with Roger and dancing with Prince Eitaro’s wife, Alex didn’t dream of murder or execution. Instead his dreams were full of strange constellations and shining curtains of light, dry grasslands stretching in every direction, a campfire and a warm body beside his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the only real improvements I could make to _Squire_ , which is basically a perfect book, was to make Kel taller than her knight-master.
> 
> (Alex's height is reckoned from Alanna's adult height, which is given as five foot four by Tamora Pierce (per the wiki) and the line near the beginning of _In the Hand of the Goddess_ where their friends tease him about only being half a head taller than her — so about five foot eight, assuming she's reached her adult height. However, she's barely fifteen at that point in the narrative, so he may be an inch or two shorter.)
> 
> A few lines are borrowed from _Page_ and _Squire_.


	7. A Clear Show of Royal Support

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It finally occurred to me that the pacing had slowed down enough that the date markers were no longer necessary at the beginning of every chapter. We'll be in 456 H.E. for a while.
> 
> A few lines are borrowed from _Squire_.

Kel had been right about one thing: the curtain wall no longer bothered her. When they reached the top of the stairs, she peered straight over the side for a moment, just to test herself, and was glad when her vision didn’t cloud and her stomach didn’t roil. Still, she didn’t like looking down. When her knight-master began to run, leading her along the length of the wall, she kept her eyes fixed on his back.

He had caught up with her on his way out of the ballroom the night before, to tell her he was going to bed. “What time do you normally get up?” he had asked, pausing before a doorway leading out into the corridor.

“A little before sunrise,” she’d replied. “I’ve been meeting the Yamani ladies for their dawn naginata practices.”

He blinked, as if surprised. “I won’t interrupt that, then. How long is it, an hour?”

“Yessir.” If she didn’t follow Shinkokami to the royal wing for breakfast afterward.

He nodded. “Meet me at the eastern end of the curtain wall after you’ve put away your weapon.”

She ought to have factored breakfast into her practice time, she thought now, as she jogged along the wall after him. There was a reason they’d taught her etiquette as a page; knights needed to learn how to socialize with all kinds of people. From a certain perspective, sharing a meal with Shinko and her ladies counted as part of her training. Her stomach rumbled audibly.

“Walk,” said her knight-master. “Catch your breath.” She slowed, taking the time to gaze out across the city, which had a kind of warm, rosy softness in the early morning light. Too soon, and not sounding the least bit out of breath himself, he said, “Run.” She dutifully picked up her pace, fixing her eyes on his back again.

The strangest part of the run came when they passed Lord Wyldon. Kel watched him approach in the hazy light, feeling almost as though she were dreaming, and then he was upon them. Lord Alexander veered to one side to let him pass, nodding curtly to him. “Cavall.”

Kel followed, her heartbeat quickening as she moved closer to the edge of the wall. She caught a glimpse of Lord Wyldon nodding in response. “Tirragen. Mindelan.”

“Good morning, my lord,” she managed, and then he was gone.

There was no sign of Lord Wyldon when they descended from the curtain wall about twenty minutes later, her legs sore and shaky. “Breakfast,” said Lord Alexander, leading her briskly across the lawn and into the palace through a side door she’d never used.

They were in the oldest wing of the palace, a shadowy maze of disused corridors and narrow staircases. After a few minutes, Kel lost track of precisely which direction they were heading in, and then he stopped abruptly before a weathered oak door. “We’ll see to your gambeson and padded breeches after we eat,” he said, as he unlocked it.

Beyond the door lay a cavernous sitting room, with a high ceiling, narrow windows, and an array of decaying tapestries and richly patterned Bazhir rugs lining the walls. There was a fire burning in the hearth, which did little to dispel the gloom. The servant laying another log over the dying flames glanced up when they entered, and then rose to greet them.

“Have breakfast sent up, would you, Enno?” said Lord Alexander, crossing to the desk in the corner, where a sealed letter lay on the otherwise spartan wood surface.

“Yes, my lord. That came for you while you were out.”

Breaking the seal, Lord Alexander unfolded the letter and read it. “Mithros, Gary’s already awake,” he muttered. “Why couldn’t this have waited until he saw me today?”

Enno ducked out into the corridor. When he returned a few minutes later, Lord Alexander introduced them, waving his hand in Kel’s general direction and saying, “My new squire. Keladry, Enno. Enno, Keladry. If you need more uniforms, just ask him.”

Enno bowed to her, smiling faintly, and then turned back to his employer. “Tea, my lord?”

“Please.”

Kel looked around for cups, but Enno already knew where they were kept. He retrieved them from a cabinet while the water was beginning to boil. Curious, she watched him prepare the tea, wondering whether her knight-master’s idea of tea bore any resemblance to Lord Thom’s. His broad hands moved busily, scooping what looked like dried flower petals into strainers and then pouring steaming water over them. She was curious about Enno as well. He was a hillman, she knew without having to be told: something about his features and the way he wore his auburn hair suggested that; his name and accent only confirmed it. There was a lilt around the edges of his words that reminded her of Eda Bell.

She heard a footfall, and glanced back toward the desk. Lord Alexander stood beside a nearby bookcase now, surveying the titles on the shelves. After a moment, he selected a book. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. “Read this.”

Kel raised an eyebrow at the author: Emry of Haryse, Neal’s famous grandfather. Judging by the title and a quick perusal of the contents, the book was a guide to managing an army. It seemed like an odd choice for her, as she was unlikely to ever be put in charge of an army, but she wasn’t going to argue over the very first thing he asked her to study. “All right, sir. When do you want me to return it?”

Lord Alexander shrugged. “Before we go on progress, let’s say. Don’t feel you have to rush through it.”

He gestured to one of the chairs beside the hearth, and she sat down. “This wing of the palace gets cold in the mornings,” he said, nodding toward the fire. “Even in summer.”

He sat down next to her, and Enno passed them each a cup of startlingly red tea, a shade or two brighter than the dried flower petals, and set a copper pot down on the little table between them. Kel blew across the surface of her cup to cool it, and breathed in floral, almost citrus-scented steam.

“I’ve spoken to Wyldon about your academic work,” said Lord Alexander, as she took an experimental sip of her tea, and found it unexpectedly tart, very different from anything else she’d ever called tea before. “As well as your combat skills, of course. All of this is customary,” he added, when Kel glanced up at him.

He took a sip of his tea. “He says your academic work is entirely competent overall. Exceptional in mathematics.” One corner of his mouth lifted in a quiet, fleeting smile. “Combat skills exceed expectations. He said you could stand to improve your archery a little, but I had to drag that out of him.”

She resisted the urge to raise her eyebrows at that, saying only, “I’m glad to hear it, my lord.”

“I’m going to make you better, Keladry.”

She smiled at him, and took another sip of her tea, still trying to decide whether she liked it. After naginata practice and a long run, it was nice to drink anything at all; she was dehydrated, and almost hungry enough to eat the book he’d loaned her.

There came a knock at the door, and Enno went to answer it. After a moment, he returned with a tray laden with dishes. As he set them down beside the copper teapot, Kel surveyed the food with interest: bread, cheese, thin slices of cured ham, jam, butter, some kind of dried fruit and, curiously, olives.

“Do you have any questions for me?” asked Lord Alexander, reaching for a dried fruit. To Kel’s eyes, they looked like oversized raisins. She reached for one as well, feeling that it was only polite to eat whatever he ate. That was a holdover from life at the Yamani imperial court, she knew, but it seemed right somehow, when he was in the king’s inner circle and still difficult to relax around.

There _had_ been something she’d been wondering, since he’d asked her to be his squire. “Are we meant to remain with the Grand Progress for the whole two years?” she asked, before biting into the fruit.

It was sticky sweet, cloyingly sweet, not at all what she’d expected. Trying not to grimace, she chewed and swallowed it, and then reached for her tea to wash it down. When she glanced up, Lord Alexander was watching her with faint amusement in his eyes. “Sweet,” she explained.

“Yes, dates are like that,” he said mildly, and reached for another one. “Unfortunately we _are_ meant to stay with the progress for the majority of its length, though I’m hoping Roger will let me off the leash a few times.”

She nodded, trying not to look disappointed. Conversations with Neal had given her some idea of the pageantry she could expect with the Grand Progress, and it wasn’t at all the kind of useful work she wanted to be doing as a squire, but at least she’d be seeing new parts of the realm. Surely that experience would come in handy after she became a knight.

“Of course, we’ll be back at the palace for Midwinter,” he went on. “Jon takes his Ordeal then. And I expect we’ll see some fighting during the progress. Bandits tend to shy away from attacking such a large party, but in my experience immortals often don’t. Go ahead, eat.”

Enno set a bottle of something down on the table, which turned out to be olive oil. “When the emperor went on progress in the Yamani Islands, bandits would attack the party sometimes,” said Kel, watching Lord Alexander drizzle the oil over a slice of bread. “We’d get spread out on the mountain roads between the valleys, and they’d pick whatever part of the progress seemed vulnerable and surround it.” She took another thick slice of bread and lay some of the paper-thin ham over it.

“That may happen after we get to Dunlath, but at least we’ll have the King’s Own flanking the procession,” he said, taking some of the ham as well. “There are a lot of mountain roads in our near future, I’m afraid. The plan is currently to head east toward Naxen, turn north at Sinthya, and then head west along the Scanran border. We’ll take the coastal road down to Port Caynn before the snow gets bad.”

Neal hadn’t told her that; he may not have known the exact route the king intended to take. If they went that way, they might pass by Mindelan over the next few months. The thought cheered her. The ham, when she tried it, cheered her further. “This is good,” she said, gesturing to it.

He smiled. “It’s from my fief. The hill folk have a way of curing it.” He reached for an olive, his smile fading slightly. “I’m going to attempt to make the best of the Grand Progress, and try not to let it interfere with your training. After all, there’s little else we can do.”

They ate in silence for several minutes, and then he cleared his throat. “There’s something else I wanted to discuss with you,” he said.

She glanced up. “Yessir?”

“I’d like you to live here. It’s a bit old-fashioned, and Wyldon doesn’t care for it, but I hate having to send a servant to fetch my squire when I’m called away from the palace suddenly. It wastes time.”

She frowned, turning that over in her mind. “I don’t object, sir, but — Lord Wyldon doesn’t care for it in my case specifically, or in general?” There must be a reason most of the other squires lived in their own rooms above the pages’ wing, but she’d never questioned it before. It did seem inconvenient, now that he mentioned it.

“In general. Squires used to live with their knight-masters as a matter of course, but King Roald outlawed that for a time.” Lord Alexander took a sip of his tea, as it dawned on Kel when the previous king had most likely outlawed it, and why. “If Wyldon objects, he can personally explain to the Lord Provost why you and I are consistently late in reporting to him.”

“When did you want me to move here, my lord?”

He shrugged. “There’s no rush with the congress in full swing, really. By the end of the week, let’s say. I’ll show you the room after breakfast.”

They lapsed into silence again, as he finished another slice of bread laden with ham and drank the last of his tea. “I’d better get changed,” he said, rising from his chair. “I’ll be heading straight over to the assembly hall after we’re done with your fittings.”

She started to get up as well, knowing it was her job to help him dress for events, but he motioned for her to stay seated. “Finish eating. Enno can assist me.”

Kel was still too hungry to argue. By the time he emerged from his bedroom, she had made her way through most of the remaining food, though she left the dates alone.

“Ready?” he said, as she rose to her feet. His face was freshly shaved, his hair neat and slightly damp, and he was dressed as plainly as he had the day before, in shades of cream and dark brown.

He showed her his spare room before they went to get her fitted for the clothes she’d wear under her mail. One of the king’s new lamps was mounted on the wall beside the door, and flared to life at a word from Lord Alexander. In the mage-light and the dimmer sunlight streaming in through the narrow window, she saw a bed set against one wall, a desk under the window and racks for weapons and armor beside it, and an empty hearth with a brightly patterned rug on the flagstones before it. Beyond a door set in the far wall lay a dressing room and a small privy. There wasn’t enough space to comfortably practice her pattern dances, but she thought he might let her use the sitting room for that.

“It’s very nice,” she said honestly, when he looked inquiringly at her.

He seemed to relax slightly at that: the faintest smile, and a slight lowering of the shoulders. “I’m glad you like it.”

As they went out into the corridor, he said, “Now, I want you to practice your archery while I’m trapped in meetings all day. If Wyldon says you can stand to improve there, I want to see you winning archery contests before the year is out.”

She nodded. “Yessir.”

When he stepped out into the corridor, after the long headache that was a morning in the midst of the congress, Lerant was waiting for him. “Her Majesty wants to see you.”

“You’re going to make me late for lunch,” said Alex.

Lerant shrugged. “She said she just wants to talk briefly with you.”

With a sigh, Alex broke away from the rest of the noblemen spilling out of the assembly hall, and followed him in the direction of the royal wing. For a few minutes, they walked in silence along the deserted corridor, as the noise of the crowd faded behind them, and then Lerant said, “Jasson says you’ve taken a new squire.”

Alex inclined his head.

“Really?” said Lerant, looking sharply at him. “The girl?”

“Why is that such a surprise?”

He shrugged again. “We all thought you’d take Gavain, that’s all.”

“With the Grand Progress starting this summer, I’m not going to wait a whole year for a new squire. Besides, Gavain’s terrified of me.” Alex glanced at him. “Is your uncle upset?”

“If he is, he hasn’t mentioned it to _me_. Aunt Delia’s livid, though.”

“She’s what?”

Delia was waiting for him in her sitting room. When they entered, she glanced up from her needlework, smiling sweetly, and gestured for him to take a seat beside her at the little table near the window. “Thank you, Lerant,” she said, the breeze stirring the gauzy veil she wore over her hair. Alex could hear strange, distant birdsong from the nearby menagerie. “You may leave us now.”

When the door had shut quietly behind her nephew, she turned to Alex, her eyes narrowing. “Now you’ve done it,” she said, jabbing at one of the little wildflowers she was embroidering to punctuate her words. Her needle glinted in the sunlight.

“Is this about your father’s mad plan to steal my river?”

Her eyes widened slightly, flashing angrily at him. “Gods, are you and Garnier still fighting about that? If you weren’t so obsessed with winning all the time, you’d see that part of the river goes right past our land _before_ it hits the Olorun — but this isn’t about that. This is about how your boyhood rivalry from twenty years ago is leading you to ruin some poor girl’s _life_.”

Alex stared blankly at her. He was definitely not sufficiently awake for this conversation. At the next party, he was going to be the first man to fight his way through the crowd gathered around Roger, so he could say hello to him and then get to bed at a decent hour. “What are you _talking_ about?”

“I am talking about Lady Alanna,” she said quietly, her eyes fixed on his, “and how you need to let go of your obsession with being better than her.”

He stared at her for a moment, feeling oddly numb, and then tapped his earlobe. She only shook her head, smiling demurely at him. “Oh, darling, I’ve been married to Roger for nearly twenty years. Do you think I don’t have ways of thwarting listening spells?”

Alex wasn’t precisely sure what to say to that.

Her smile faded. “Let me speak more plainly, since you’re not feeling very talkative today,” she went on, stabbing at her embroidery again. “But when are you ever? You just took a new squire — the first girl to be a squire since Lady Alanna. Perhaps you aren’t deliberately trying to sabotage her or drive her away; Roger evidently seems to be under the impression that the more lady knights there are in Tortall, the less Alanna will be remembered. Perhaps that’s your motive, to make her a part of your legacy instead. Perhaps you think you’re helping Keladry, but you _aren’t_. Haven’t you given any thought to what this is going to do to her reputation?”

“Her reputation?” he repeated, annoyed. So that’s what this was: his conversation with Thom from the night before all over again. “Keladry’s _reputation_ is that she’s one of the best squires in her year. At the age of ten she was training with weighted practice weapons. When she was eleven or twelve, bandits ambushed a group of pages near the River Hasteren and she led the defense — against grown men, hardened warriors. All of the pages survived.” Keladry had tried to keep part of that story quiet, the part where she had led the other pages, but he’d heard other accounts of that day besides hers.

Delia gazed back at him, apparently unmoved. “She’s going to have absolutely no marriage prospects, you know.”

He made a face. “That’s what you’re concerned about?”

Her eyes narrowed again. “Do you think noblewomen marry for love, Alex? We marry for security. Suppose she’s crippled in battle. A man who loses a limb in service to the crown might still marry. He may have a fief to look after, or find a position at court. People may pity him, but they’ll call him a hero. A lady knight, on the other hand? They’ll call her a slut and say she deserved her injuries, for daring to take on a man’s role. With no husband, and no land or property in her own right, she’ll end up a burden to her family, and the Mindelans have more than enough children and grandchildren to feed as it is.”

Alex glared back at her. “With the immortals, we need every warrior we can get. Have you seen the King’s Own lately? They actually learned how to fight.”

She didn’t laugh at that, but he hadn’t really expected her to. “There are _rules_ , and you’re not playing by them. A married man, with daughters of his own and a lady wife who stood by him, might have been able to take her as his squire without there being a scandal, but even that’s not a certainty. _You’re_ going to ruin her, and she deserves better than that.” She stared at him for a moment, her eyes hard, and then thrust her needle through the center of one of the little wildflowers. “Your own reputation is going to suffer, too.”

“I think it can take the hit.”

She smiled, knife-like. “Can it? Surely you’ve heard what they say about you and Roger. Not to mention the whispers about his cousin’s death. Some of those rumors get very near the mark.”

He didn’t reply.

After a moment, Delia sighed, relenting a little. “It was supposed to be Gavain,” she said wearily. “You _know_ Roger wanted you to choose him next.”

“He hinted at that,” he admitted. “But he never gave me an order. Is he unhappy?”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’d say so, yes.”

Alex watched her for a moment, feeling strangely unmoved by that. Roger had been unhappy with him before; surely he’d get over it. “I’m doing Gavain a favor,” he replied at last. “He used to wilt whenever I’d correct his sword work.”

“Well, you’ve never been very good with children,” she said dryly. “This isn’t over, you know. You might not care about that poor girl’s future beyond your ability to turn her into some kind of armored thug, but I do, and I happen to know her mother.”

“Do you indeed?” he said distractedly, glancing toward the door. “May I go now, Your Majesty? I’m missing lunch. I’ll smooth things over with Roger.”

One side of her mouth twitched slightly, a momentary flicker of distaste. “Of course you will. I’ll see you at the banquet tonight, then.”

From long experience, Alex knew the easiest and quickest way to appease Roger was submission. He found him easily enough, sitting in his study reading reports over a plate of roast chicken. Alex’s stomach growled at the sight of it, but he was used to ignoring the demands and limitations of his body.

At Roger’s invitation, he entered the room, crossed to the desk, and knelt before the king, bowing his head. After a moment, he felt a hand ruffle his hair. “Oh, Alex,” said Roger, sounding amused. “Did someone tell you I was cross with you?”

Alex didn’t look up. “Aren’t you, sire? I know you were considering me for Gavain.”

“Well — perhaps a bit. I _was_ surprised you didn’t tell me your plans.”

Alex shrugged. Usually he didn’t have to. In retrospect, he had perhaps been unusually secretive this time, trying to avoid the conversation in which he might have been persuaded to make a decision he knew was a bad one.

“And I was somewhat disappointed as well. I was hoping you’d be able to toughen Gavain up.” He sighed, and then offered a hand to Alex. It was more symbolic than anything else, as he was sitting down and couldn’t provide him with much leverage, but Alex took his hand and climbed to his feet. “Of course, it wouldn’t have worked, would it? He was always a little terrified of you.”

Alex leaned against the desk, gazing down at him. “He was, yes. Lord Imrah would be a better choice for him.”

Roger stared at him for a moment in silence, frowning slightly. “I’ve never been as sure of Imrah as I am of you,” he said finally. “Still, he’s a capable knight, and he’s generally well-liked.”

He looked past Alex toward the window, which stood open to draw in the breeze. “Gavain never wanted to be a knight, did he? Here, sit down, make yourself comfortable.”

“No,” said Alex, pulling a chair closer. “He didn’t.”

“Delia coddled them too much, I think. Particularly the younger boys.”

Alex shrugged again. “That’s what mothers do.”

“I suppose so,” said Roger, returning his gaze to him. “I’m not displeased with your choice of squire, you know. In retrospect it was very clever. A clear show of royal support. She’ll be at the front of the progress with you, of course.”

Somehow he sensed the groan that Alex managed to suppress, and smiled. “Do cheer up, Alex. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the tournaments, at least. Aren’t you supposed to be eating lunch with the rest of the Council of Lords? Here, have some chicken. Have as much as you like. I can always send for more.”

Alex drew the plate nearer to him, sighing. “Two _years_ of this, sire?”

There came at last a breeze through the open window, stirring the sweltering air. Roger gazed patiently at him, ignoring both the heat and the brief respite from it. “When my grandfather introduced his foreign bride to the realm,” he explained, “the Grand Progress following their wedding in Barzun lasted for two years. They didn’t call Jasson’s father Baird the Roisterer for nothing; the man certainly loved a party.” He smiled the way Delia had smiled, like the glint of a knife. “My son deserves nothing less. I won’t be outdone by my ancestors.”

“And when are we planning on invading the Yamani Islands?” said Alex dryly, through a mouthful of roast chicken.

Roger chuckled. “You’ll get through the progress. After the wedding, you can go where you like. Northern border duty? A year in the desert, with nobody to talk to except the scorpions? Say the word and it’s yours.”

“Thank you.”

Roger took a sip of wine from his cup, refilled it, and offered it to him. “Tell me, how is the congress progressing? Have any brawls broken out yet?”

Alex hesitated. Strictly speaking, the king wasn’t supposed to interfere with the business of the Council of Lords, at least not before they cast their votes.

“Come, now. Have you settled that matter of the salt mine yet?”

The way governance was meant to work in theory was never how it ended up working in practice. Alliances formed; compromises had to be made; somehow the king always managed to learn things before he was supposed to, and of course Roger was always curious about everything anyway, political or not. “Eldorne won’t budge,” Alex said at last. “Which is annoying, because he doesn’t have much claim to the mine. He’s just dragging things out.”

“How frustrating,” murmured Roger, all sympathy. “What else has been going on?”

Her shooting arm was just beginning to get tired when a deep voice broke the morning stillness. “There you are, Alex! We missed you yesterday in the tilting yard.”

Kel lowered her longbow, taking the opportunity to shake out her arm. Lord Alexander did not lower his bow, or look away from the target. “Hello, Raoul,” he said calmly, as he drew his bowstring. “We missed _you_ in the assembly hall.” He loosed his arrow, smiling when it hit the center of the target.

“True,” said Sir Raoul, sitting on the fence lining the archery range. “Father still insists on making the trip to Corus every two years. Says he isn’t dead yet, and he’ll thank the king to remember it. Which is just as well, because I was called away to the desert for two months. Just got back. I thought you might have lit out for the border, until I remembered the congress was still going on.”

Smiling again, Lord Alexander reached for another arrow. “Surely you know that if I tried to escape the Grand Progress, Roger would have me bound, gagged, and stowed in one of the supply wagons.” Another thrum of the bowstring, another thud as his arrow hit home. “And then think how upset Delia would be, when she discovered they’d left some of her gowns behind to make room for me.”

To keep from grinning at that image, Kel thought of a still lake, its surface like a mirror. Blue skies, no breeze.

“On the other hand,” said the other man cheerfully, “you might miss a banquet or two. There are benefits to being trapped in a supply wagon.”

Kel studied him. She had seen Raoul of Goldenlake before, but only from a distance. He was a big man, about a head taller than her, with a broad, ruddy face and curly black hair he wore cropped short, the way Lord Alexander wore his hair. Like them, he was dressed for practice in a padded jacket, padded breeches, and riding boots. Seeing her looking at him, he smiled brightly. “Who’s this youngster?”

“Keladry of Mindelan, my new squire.” Bracing one end of the wood against his boot, Lord Alexander unstrung his longbow. “Keladry, have you met Raoul of Goldenlake yet?”

“No, sir.” She bowed to him, feeling slightly wary. The man seemed friendly enough, but she didn’t expect everyone to react well to Lord Alexander’s choice of squire.

He blinked, looking faintly surprised, and then smiled warmly at her. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, and she smiled back at him.

“How are your arms feeling?” Lord Alexander asked her.

“Fine, sir.”

“All the same, let’s switch to something else now. We’ve been out here for over an hour.”

Kel nodded. She unstrung her bow, coiled the string, and went to fetch their arrows from the targets. Her knight-master leaned against the fence beside Sir Raoul, tilting his head back and looking up at the clouds.

“She’s a good shot,” she heard Sir Raoul say, his voice carrying on the wind. “So what does the king think of your squire?”

There was a brief silence. “I don’t have to ask his _permission_.”

Startled, Kel paused in the act of tugging an arrow out of one of the targets. She hadn’t heard that tone in Lord Alexander’s voice before: frost seemed to bloom over every word. She glanced over at them, and saw her knight-master glaring up at his friend. Sir Raoul gazed calmly down at him, his eyebrows raised slightly. Then he noticed Kel looking over at them, and smiled again at her.

“Don’t mind him,” he called. “He’s not much of a morning person.”

Lord Alexander relaxed, the expression on his face softening. “That’s true,” he said, serene again. “Please, don’t take it personally.”

“It’s all right, sir,” she told him, and went back to retrieving arrows.

“Gary tells me they’re planning to spend the morning session arguing about a new lighthouse at Blue Harbor,” she heard him say to Sir Raoul, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “I decided to skip that. Are you heading over to the tilting yard?”

“That’s what I was planning on. It’s been a while since I knocked you into the dirt.”

“You’re right. And it’s been a while since you lost a duel to me. Keladry,” he said, pitching his voice so she could hear him clearly, “do you feel like practicing your tilting?”

“Yessir,” she called.

He smiled at her. “Go saddle Peachblossom and War Hammer, then, and meet us in the tilting yard nearest the stables. Bring a few spare lances and coromanel tips, please.”

Kel fetched the last of the arrows, and the rest of his archery gear and hers, before trotting over to the stables with Shiro at her heels. Lord Alexander kept his gear tidy, with everything just where she’d been trained to put it. Kel was grateful for that now, knowing he’d check her work carefully, to make sure she could take proper care of his horses.

The afternoon before, Peachblossom had been moved to his new quarters, his bill of sale signed and notarized. She had been introduced to Lord Alexander’s horses then, who resided in the neighboring stalls: his riding mount, a graceful black gelding called Halberd, and his destrier, a solid liver chestnut mare called War Hammer. “How silly,” she murmured, now that her knight-master wasn’t there to hear her opinion of his horses’ names. He might play at being the stoic warrior who thought of nothing but weaponry and battle tactics, but Kel had seen flickers of something else in his sitting room, where his bookshelves were crammed with volumes on mathematics and history, and the walls were bright with Bazhir rugs. War Hammer lipped her tunic affectionately as she saddled her.

When she reached the tilting yard, Sir Raoul was already there, sitting astride a black warhorse and talking to her knight-master, who perched on the fence. “Willow rings?” Sir Raoul was saying. “You’re joking.”

Lord Alexander shook his head. “I’m telling you, that’s what Wyldon uses. Trains the older pages on them, too — the ones who are ready for it, at least.”

“ _He_ must be a popular training master.” Sir Raoul shaded his eyes with his hand, smiling. “Here’s your squire.”

Lord Alexander slid down from the fence. He inspected War Hammer’s saddle and tack, nodded briskly, and then swung himself up onto her back. Kel passed him his helm and then handed him a practice lance, leaving the spare lances she had brought on the grass beside the fence. “Thank you,” he said, leaving his visor up. “Go ahead and mount up. Take a few runs at one of the quintains in the next yard while Raoul pounds me like venison.”

“Yessir.”

He was looking thoughtful. “Have you ever tilted at another person before?”

She nodded. “Lord Wyldon had the fourth-year pages start tilting at each other in the spring.”

One corner of his mouth lifted wryly. “I think I can imagine how that went. Duke Gareth didn’t let _us_ try that until we were squires.”

“Gods, no,” said Sir Raoul, grinning. “He wanted to keep us alive. Didn’t you almost kill Gary your first run? That’s Gareth the Younger of Naxen to you,” he informed Kel. “No doubt you’ve seen him around the palace.”

Lord Alexander shook his head, smiling. “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”

“The way your lance whipped around, hitting you both at the same time? Knocking you both off your horses into the mud? No, I don’t think I will.”

Kel bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to laugh.

“I think it’s important to remind your squires of your humanity,” said Sir Raoul, saluting him with his lance. “Ready, Alex?” The lance was padded, Kel noticed, in addition to the coromanel tip. It was nice to see they weren’t leaving anything up to chance.

Lord Alexander nodded. “Take three or four runs,” he told Kel, looking serious again. “However many you like to warm up with. And then meet us back here.” 

She swung up into the saddle and rode Peachblossom over to a neighboring training yard, where a row of quintain dummies waited for her. Trying not to be distracted by the sound of pounding hooves as her knight-master took his first run at his friend, she guided her horse into place in front of one of the quintains. This one had a small black spot painted in the center of its shield, to give her more of a challenge than the standard dummies.

After her fourth run, she rode back to the first tilting yard in time to watch Lord Alexander and Sir Raoul come together in a thundering crash that shattered her knight-master’s lance. Sir Raoul’s lance skidded off Lord Alexander’s shield. “You’re slippery — you know that, don’t you?” called Sir Raoul, as he transferred his lance to his shield hand and shook out his arm. “You keep dodging me.”

“You keep trying to knock me into the mud,” Lord Alexander retorted.

“It’s good for the skin!”

Lord Alexander rode back toward the fence, and Kel passed him a fresh lance with a coromanel tip. “Thank you,” he said. “Did you see how I did that?”

She nodded slowly, recalling how he had leaned away from Sir Raoul in the saddle. “You shifted your weight.”

“It helps having a fast horse,” he said, patting War Hammer’s neck gently. “But you’re right — if you know where your opponent is trying to hit you, sometimes you can dodge him. That’s easy enough. The challenge is managing to do it without unbalancing yourself.”

She nodded again, trying to fix what she had seen in her memory.

“That comes with practice. Now, do you feel up to tilting against me?”

“Yes, sir.” Just look at his shield, she reminded herself, not his face. She had learned that much from tilting at her friends over the spring.

“Don’t tense up,” he told her kindly. “Pretend you’re tilting at the quintain again. I won’t try any tricks with you like I do with Raoul.”

Whistling quietly to himself, Sir Raoul retreated to the fence to watch them as they rode to opposite ends of the yard. He dismounted and leaned against the fence, and then noticed Shiro sitting beside him. He offered his hand to the dog to sniff, smiling when Shiro’s tail began to wag.

“Ready?” called Lord Alexander. Kel made sure that Peachblossom was in position, and then saluted him with her lance. Trying to swallow, she settled the lance on her stirrup. Her mouth was dry, and despite what he’d said, it was hard not to tense up her shoulders. Though her lance was tipped with a coromanel to spread out the force of her strike, it wasn’t padded like Sir Raoul’s was, and even with the padding, it had looked like Sir Raoul had hit him hard.

She didn’t want to use Peachblossom’s best speed today, not the first time she tilted against her knight-master. Not when a misplaced lance could crack one of his ribs, or worse. “Go faster,” she murmured, her heart pounding in her chest. As Peachblossom surged forward, Kel lowered her lance, keeping her eyes on Lord Alexander’s shield. Like hers, it was white, with a hand-sized black circle in the center that rose and fell with his horse’s movements. Seeing him shift in the saddle as he rushed toward her, Kel rose in her stirrups and leaned forward slightly, aiming the point of her lance at that black circle.

Pain struck her shield arm; she slammed into the high back of her tilting saddle. The world spun as Peachblossom danced away from Lord Alexander’s horse. She gasped for breath, her right arm aching fiercely, which told her that at least she’d hit his shield.

From somewhere to her left, she heard a man growl a curse. When Peachblossom turned, bringing her knight-master into view, she realized the voice had been Sir Raoul’s. Shiro had abandoned him, racing into the lanes to launch himself at Lord Alexander’s leg. He hung on grimly with his teeth, as Lord Alexander shielded his eyes from a cloud of angry sparrows.

Kel raised her visor. “Shiro!” she shouted over the din of shrieking birds. “Crown, Freckle, stop! He’s _supposed_ to do that! It’s a game!”

Sir Raoul whistled, trying to call the dog back to him. It didn’t work, but at her words Shiro had dropped to the ground, looking sheepish. He trotted over to Kel, his whole ear flat and his tail between his legs. The sparrows wheeled away, settling along the fence. After a moment, Lord Alexander raised his visor and stared after them, wide-eyed and ashen.

They remained where they were. In the long stretch of silence that followed, Kel inwardly cursed herself for not having told him about the sparrows earlier. It hadn’t even occurred to her. Explaining how they had helped out during the spidren hunt at the end of her first year as a page would have felt like bragging, and she hated bragging, but this was far worse.

War Hammer was stamping irritably, her tail swishing as her eyes rolled. Returning to himself a little, Lord Alexander leaned over to stroke her neck, murmuring something to her. When she had calmed down, he glanced up at Kel. “Are you a mage?” he asked, with an odd, distant note of fear in his voice that unsettled her.

Kel shook her head vehemently. “No, my lord. The sparrows live in the courtyard outside the pages’ wing — I’ve been feeding them since my first year here. Stefan Groomsman says all the palace animals are a little different now,” she added, trying to be helpful. “He says it’s because the Wildmage lived here for a time. Some of her magic rubbed off on them.”

Lord Alexander stared bleakly at her. “Oh,” he said quietly, after a moment, and gazed at the birds lining the fence. “They listen to you?”

“To some extent, sir. They helped us track spidrens once, in the Royal Forest.”

He nodded slowly. “And you’re not a mage?”

“No, my lord. We were all tested when we were children, me and all my siblings.” Most people were, by the local hedgewitch at the very least, and if there was anyone less a mage than her, she didn’t think she’d met them yet.

“Of course you were,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Well — perhaps just — explain this to your animals next time, before we start.”

“Yessir. Sorry, sir.”

He attempted a smile. “Also, lift your shield a little higher next time.”

She nodded, relieved to see the color beginning to return to his face. “Yessir.”

“You did well,” he said, almost in his normal tone of voice. “Most squires don’t hit anywhere near the shield on their first try.”

Kel stared at him, alarmed. What if she had missed his shield? She might have hurt him.

“Don’t worry,” he said kindly. “I’ve had plenty of practice dodging stray lances. Ready to go again?”

The ache in her arms was fading fast. She transferred her lance to her shield arm, shaking out her right arm and flexing her fingers, and then transferred her shield to her lance arm to do the same with her left. “Yessir,” she said, as she settled her lance and shield into place again.

A comforting sense of normalcy had returned to the tilting yard. Shiro had returned to Sir Raoul’s side; the birds remained on their perches along the fence. Lord Alexander didn’t even glance at them before lowering his visor and nudging War Hammer into a trot. “Ready?” he called, when they were in position on opposite ends of the yard.

“Yes,” she murmured, and then saluted him with her lance. “Go faster,” she said to Peachblossom, bracing herself for impact as he raced down the lane.


	8. The Grand Progress

The Grand Progress departed the day after Midsummer. Kel was in the stable just after dawn that morning, saddling her knight-master’s horses, Peachblossom, and her new riding mount. The last was an unflappable dapple gray mare that Stefan Groomsman had thought would get on well with Peachblossom. Kel had named her Kasumi, because her coat reminded her of the mists that used to shroud the grounds of the emperor’s palace in the Yamani Islands.

She worked as quickly as she could, stifling frequent yawns. She had been up late the night before, waiting until well after dark to finally pay a visit to the Chapel of the Ordeal. After the progress departed, it would be months before she’d have the opportunity again. All of her friends had already been there, she knew, most of them during the first week after the big exams, to test their courage against the iron door leading into the Chamber of the Ordeal.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, Kel led the horses over the open ground where the procession had begun to gather, still thinking about the vision she’d had upon touching the Chamber door. In it, she had watched the tournament that had been held at the palace two years ago, this time from the judges’ box rather than the stands. She watched her knight-master take a first run at Lord Wyldon, and then a second and a third, coming together in a teeth-rattling crash of armor each time. Both men remained in their saddles.

All around her, the other judges were nodding and raising small pennants that showed a black dragonfly displayed on a purple field, like the one on her new shield. Kel glanced down at the pennants she held, her hands still folded in her lap. In one hand she held the same pennant, and in the other she held a flag showing a rearing black dog holding a black sword in its paws, on a white field bordered in gold. She looked up again, hesitating, and saw the king glaring down at her from the box where the royal family sat. His blue eyes locked on hers, and her stomach lurched suddenly, and then she was falling. As the ground below Balor’s Needle rushed up to meet her, she pulled her hand away from the Chamber door, gasping.

Her dreams that night had been uneasy things. Seeing her knight-master standing there now in the soft morning light, Kel stopped for a moment, feeling uncertain. She had nearly forgotten that tournament, but now it was hard to shake her memory of Neal telling her that it hadn’t been a fair contest. Could she serve a knight-master who wasn’t fair?

Lord Alexander stood amidst the mounted nobles, against a backdrop of supply wagons, wearing his parade armor and talking to the king, who sat astride a blue dun mare. Maybe I’m the one who’s being unfair, thought Kel, as she approached her knight-master with their horses. If things had really happened as Neal said, it was the king who’d rigged the tournament, not Lord Alexander. That thought didn’t comfort her much.

“— take us hours to get through the city,” Kel heard her knight-master saying quietly. “Let alone on the road to Fief Naxen.”

Roger gazed down at him, his expression thoughtful. “Your concerns are valid. But I think perhaps you misunderstand the point of this progress, Alex. Our intent is to be seen.”

“And I’m sure we will be, as we stand perfectly still up and down Market Way for six hours, waiting for merchant carts to get out of our path.” Lord Alexander glanced around, and noticed Kel standing there, surrounded by horses, with a scattering of sparrows over Peachblossom’s mane. “Sire,” he added.

“Good morning, Keladry,” said the king pleasantly.

She smiled shakily and bowed to them, hoping that Peachblossom wouldn’t bite one of the other horses while she was distracted. “Good morning, Your Majesty, my lord. His hooves look fine,” she added to Lord Alexander in an undertone, as he took Halberd’s reins from her.

“Well, let’s hope he doesn’t throw a shoe along Market Way. We’ll be there for six hours, after all.”

Kel glanced at the king, whose smile looked rather pasted on now.

“Hold on a moment,” said Lord Alexander before he mounted up. “I’m not going to let this Grand Progress nonsense disrupt your training if I can help it.” He unfastened his horn from his saddle and blew a brief series of long and short notes, breaking the stillness of the morning. A cloud of birds raced overhead, chirping and whistling sharply.

“Interpret that,” he said, as the men of the King’s Own looked over at him, startled.

Kel thought for a moment. “Enemy archers, sir. To the east?”

“Very good.”

“Do that again and I’m taking that thing away from you,” said the king.

Her knight-master had a point about the efficiency of riding straight through Corus, but she wished he’d expressed it more tactfully. The air was tense as they rode through the ornate City Gate leading out into the Temple District, with Lord Alexander riding just behind the king, between Princess Jessamine and Thom of Trebond. Kel rode behind her knight-master, where she had a good view of the myriad gleaming temples they passed. To her left were several of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting, as well as Yuki and Lady Haname, who had been adopted by the other ladies soon after their arrival in Corus. On her right, Kel was flanked by a young man wearing the uniform of the King’s Own.

He had saluted her ironically as they rode through the gate, when the king wasn’t looking. “Ready, squire?”

Kel looked at him curiously. The glint in his eyes looked amused, but not malicious. Moreover, something about his face reminded her of someone. “I think so,” she replied.

“Starting to get hot,” muttered Lord Alexander as they rode past the Temple of the Great Mother Goddess. He twisted around to glance at Kel, just long enough to make it clear he was talking to her. “It’s all this stone. Really locks in the heat.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have worn such dark colors,” murmured the king, glancing back at Lord Alexander in his parade armor. Kel had taken it to the palace armory earlier that week to have the bluing and engraving touched up. “Your plume is askew, by the way.”

Lord Alexander yanked at the purple feather on his helm, pulling it sharply to the right. “Better, sire?”

Roger frowned. “Worse, actually.” He snapped his fingers, and the feather straightened itself abruptly.

The procession slowed to a halt as they left the Temple District, and Palace Way became Market Way. Her family’s town house was nearby, thought Kel, as they waited for traffic to clear amidst the fine homes lining the road. She could easily walk to it, if she dismounted. It would be faster than riding, at the moment.

There were banners and garlands everywhere. From Kasumi’s saddle she could see dozens of Tortallan and Yamani flags, waving from the rooftops further down the hill. City folk had gathered along either side of Market Way, dressed in their festival clothes. Seeing a little girl just ahead of her, wearing a white dress and a garland of flowers over her hair, Kel couldn’t help but smile. The girl waved to her, grinning, and she waved back.

“They’re standing in the road,” murmured Lord Alexander. “It’s creating a bottleneck.”

Gradually the road began to clear. Riding more slowly than she had in her life, Kel followed her knight-master and the royal family into the marketplace, which had been cleared of stalls to make way for the progress. They headed east, crossing the River Olorun via a wide bridge lined with people.

The slow pace of the journey grated at her, and sometimes she thought she could hear Lord Alexander grinding his teeth over the noise of the procession, but the king seemed to be enjoying himself. Kel watched him smile serenely down at his subjects, who were all wearing some scrap of royal blue ribbon as they gazed up at him. “It’s a lovely day,” he remarked to Shinkokami at one point, who rode on his left between Prince Jonathan and the queen. “Plenty of sunshine, but with enough of a breeze to keep the heat off. What’s the weather like in the Yamani Islands, this time of year?”

Kel watched the outskirts of the city pass by slowly, half listening to Shinkokami and the king conversing politely as they rode along. Outside the city walls, their pace increased slightly. The country east of Corus was flat and open, dotted with farms and sparse forests. Though they were less vulnerable to bandits here than an imperial progress would have been in the Yamani Islands, she was glad to have the men of the King’s Own guarding them.

That first night, they were scheduled to set up camp at Fief Blythdin. A few days before they’d left, Lord Alexander had informed her that they would be lodging in the castle for the night, as honored guests of Lord Blythdin. “King’s orders,” he had said, grimacing. “I’m afraid I was put on the spot, so I couldn’t come up with an excuse to sleep on the ground fast enough. No tents for Roger, no tents for us.” Though she liked sleeping out in the open air, Kel didn’t share his distaste for spending the night at the castle. After hours of riding very slowly on a hot day, she was starting to look forward to a bath.

“You keep glancing around, squire,” said the man from the King’s Own riding on her right side, the one who had saluted wryly to her as they’d ridden out into the city. “If you’re looking for Castle Blythdin, we won’t reach it for another couple of hours at this rate. If you’re looking for bandits to fight, I think you’ll be disappointed.”

She glanced at him. He was in his early twenties, broad-shouldered and handsome, with dark hair cut just below his ears and a cheerful grin. She judged him to be about half a head taller than her. “Why would I be disappointed, sergeant?” she asked him, taking note of the crimson band on his shirt sleeve.

“Not too many bandits in this part of the country,” he explained. “The open terrain doesn’t attract them, and they’re unlikely to attack the progress anyway. Too many knights and mages around. Now, immortals, on the other hand . . . those worry me a bit more, but we should be able to handle them without much trouble.”

Kel nodded, remembering that Lord Alexander had expressed similar views several weeks back.

“Granted, if I’m wrong about bandits, I’ll gladly step back and let you and your dog take the first swing at them.” He nodded to Shiro, who was riding in his leather carrier behind Kasumi’s saddle. “I’ve heard stories about you and bandits.”

She frowned, puzzled. “You have?”

He bowed to her from the saddle. “You’re Keladry of Mindelan. Your page-sponsor was a certain mad cousin of mine.”

She studied him more closely, realizing it was his nose that looked familiar to her. It was Neal’s nose, on a stranger’s face. “You’re related to Neal?”

“Sadly, yes. Domitan of Masbolle, at your service.” He leaned toward her slightly, the corners of his mouth turned up in a conspiratorial smile. “Call me Dom. I call him Meathead. Have you ever met anyone so stubborn?”

Peachblossom lunged for him. He leaned back, startled. Kel pulled the lead rein taut just in time, before Peachblossom’s teeth closed on Dom’s leg. “Sorry, sir,” she said, as the sparrows perched in a line along his mane ruffled their feathers. Some of them had taken flight, stretching their wings as they circled overhead.

He grinned. “Suddenly I understand why he’s not riding at the back of the train with the other remounts. That crown of birds makes him look so innocuous.”

She winced. Shortly before the progress had departed, one of the hostlers had come over to retrieve Peachblossom and Lord Alexander’s War Hammer, to add them to the string of horses at the back of the procession. Lord Alexander handed over his destrier’s lead rein and then paused, thinking this over. “Better keep Peachblossom with you,” he told Kel. “Ride just behind me on my right, with him on the outside.”

“Surely that’s not necessary,” said the king, beckoning for the hostler to return.

Kel remembered watching in horror as Peachblossom’s head snaked toward Roger’s outstretched hand, teeth parted. She jerked the lead rein back, a little harder than she’d meant to. “Sorry,” she whispered, both to her horse and to the king. “I’m so sorry.”

When he spoke again, the king’s voice was mild, although he kept opening and closing his fist slowly, as though making sure all of his fingers were still there. “I stand corrected. In the future I’ll leave the distribution of warhorses to you, Alex.”

The memory made her innards roil, but Kel tried not to let her emotions show on her face. “He can be temperamental,” she explained to Dom, wondering whether he had seen Peachblossom try to bite the king earlier. The fewer people who had witnessed that, the better. “He likes me and Stefan Groomsman, and that’s about it.”

“Useful quality to have in a warhorse. So tell me, what’s it like being trapped in a classroom with my cousin?”

Kel smiled. “Very educational,” she replied, grateful for the change of subject.

At Castle Blythdin, Kel was given a room adjoining her knight-master’s quarters, and told to report to Master Oakbridge promptly. When she reached the serving room, Merric and Seaver were already there, still wearing dress uniforms in blue and silver. Merric smiled crookedly at her. “How’s the front of the procession?”

“Peachblossom tried to bite the king,” she confessed to them in a whisper.

Seaver’s mouth dropped open. “What? No.”

“It happened on the palace grounds,” she explained, “right before we left.”

“That was hours ago,” Merric pointed out, after a long silence. “He’s probably forgotten about it by now.”

Unlike at banquets where she had served while still a page, Kel was instructed to wait on her knight-master and his dining companions that night. To her dismay, Lord Alexander had been seated with Lord and Lady Blythdin, Princess Shinkokami, and the royal family. Before stepping up to the dais, she sent up a quick prayer that she wouldn’t spill anything on the king. She tried to avoid looking at her parents, who were seated just below the dais with Lady Haname and Duke Baird, fearing that their gaze would make her feel more self-conscious.

Roger was talking quietly with Lord Blythdin as she approached them with a finger bowl and towels. She offered it to him first, and then to the queen.

“Thank you, Keladry,” said the king, smiling up at her. “How is your horse?”

Curse Merric for getting her hopes up. “Better behaved now, Your Majesty,” she replied, grateful when her voice didn’t squeak. “I gave him a talking-to.”

He chuckled, and the queen frowned curiously at them. She rinsed her hands in the finger bowl, drying them with quick motions that might have looked like irritation in a less exalted woman, and then glanced up at Kel and flashed her a gentle smile. “Thank you, my dear.”

Kel bowed to her, startled. Delia had never spoken to her before.

“Warhorses are very spirited animals,” her husband explained. “They’re bred to it. I learned that firsthand this morning, so to speak.”

“Kept all your fingers, though,” muttered Lord Alexander.

The king smiled at him. “I did, yes. We should all be so fortunate, whenever we find ourselves in hostile territory.”

Kel moved on, offering the finger bowl to the other diners in order of rank. When she reached the end of the table, Princess Jessamine smiled up at her apologetically. “Don’t mind my parents and Uncle Alex,” she murmured. “They’ve all had a very long day.”

Kel returned the smile, grateful.

“Have you met my brother Sandy?” Jessamine asked brightly, indicating the boy seated beside her. He ducked his head shyly.

Kel smiled at the youngest prince, Alexander, as she offered him the finger bowl. A slim, snub-nosed boy of about ten, with tousled dark hair and wide green eyes, he looked a great deal like his cousin, Jasson of Eldorne. “Hello,” he said, as he rinsed his hands. “When do they allow you to eat?” Jessamine looked faintly startled, as though that question had never occurred to her.

“After the banquet, Your Highness,” she murmured, not wanting to attract his parents’ notice again. Even when they were smiling at her, she felt uncomfortable and far too visible.

“Who decided that?” asked the prince.

“I’m not sure.”

“Do you eat the same meal as we do? Because ours is _very_ long. I can try to speed it up by eating faster, but with everybody else eating at the same rate, I don’t think it will do much good.”

“Oh no, that’s all right,” said Kel, thinking that Neal would probably enjoy talking with him. “Eat as slowly as you like, Your Highness,” she added, but when she returned later with a full jug of wine, she saw him slurping his soup as though someone had challenged him to a race.

Somehow she got through the rest of the banquet without disgracing herself in front of the royal family or their hosts. Afterward, the diners retired to an adjacent room to listen to a quartet of Yamani musicians who were part of Shinkokami’s entourage, and Kel was released from her serving duties. She could hear the music distantly as she and the other squires ate their late supper.

Most of her friends would be sleeping in the camp outside the castle walls. After bidding them good night, Kel retired to the sitting room she shared with her knight-master, curling up in a chair by the fire to read. At Midwinter, Neal had given her a book on the history of warfare in the Eastern Lands, and she wanted to finish another chapter of it before bed.

After reading a few pages, she heard the door open again and glanced up. Lord Alexander trudged into the room, yawning hugely. “I’m exhausted. You should have put me down for a nap when I threw a tantrum in front of the king this morning.”

She grinned at him, startled. “At least you were better behaved than Peachblossom, my lord.”

He laughed. “True. At least you have Kasumi. She understands the meaning of diplomacy.” There was a lilt around the edges of his words when he was tired, she had noticed, a slight accent not unlike his manservant Enno’s.

He sank into the chair opposite hers. “I’ll be going to bed in a moment, but there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Yessir?”

He yawned again, covering his mouth with his hand. “It’s about the gear you already had — your gauntlets and arm guards, and that lovely belt knife you own.”

Kel frowned slightly. “What about them, sir?”

“That’s expensive steel, and finely worked leather. I’d ask how your parents paid for it all, if I didn’t recognize the design.”

Her frown deepened, as she recalled Lord Thom saying he’d asked a knight for advice when choosing her gifts. That explained the odd look on his face when he’d first seen them. “You didn’t — help design them, did you?”

“Not precisely,” he said, smiling slightly, “but Thom did ask me some very detailed questions. It’s all right, he’s already admitted to it.” He studied her for a moment, his smile fading to an expression that was harder to read. “I suppose you know about his sister?”

“He told me a few stories, my lord,” she replied, trying and failing to reconcile him with the Alex from those stories. It was hard to picture him as a boy her own age, a page or squire with the same preoccupations and worries as her: not tripping during banquet service, not falling asleep over his homework. “Lord Thom says you were one of her closest friends growing up.”

“I was,” he said, a little hesitantly. “Though we’d grown apart by the time I took my Ordeal.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “It’s not uncommon for childhood friends to drift apart as they get older.”

She studied his face in the firelight, wondering if that was all it had been, or if she’d stumbled across some deeper rift. Lord Thom had never told his sister’s stories in strict chronological order, so it was hard to be sure, but she couldn’t recall Lord Alexander, or the boy he had been, appearing in many of the later ones. It was as though he had vanished somewhere around the time Lady Alanna had become a squire.

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking suddenly weary. “We should both get some rest, really. It’s been a very long day.”

Kel nodded. If he didn’t want to talk about Lady Alanna, she wasn’t going to press him. Perhaps someday he would; she could be patient. “Good night, sir.”

The next day, the progress continued east toward Lake Naxen. When Kel brought his riding mount to him that morning, Lord Alexander seemed to be in better spirits than he had the day before. He wore plainer armor today, the kind of gear a knight would wear in the field rather than for show, which may have had something to do with his change in mood.

“I’m told we’ll be spending several days at Naxen,” he remarked, stifling a yawn as he swung into the saddle. “There’s going to be a tournament. At least we’ll have that to distract us.”

East of Blythdin lay Tortall’s Lake Region. This was green, hilly country tucked into the northeastern corner of the realm, where the Scanran border met the borders with Galla and Tusaine. To the north were the mountains; east along the Drell River lay scattered marshlands. Some of the land they rode through was farmed and grazed, but a great deal of it had been left to the woods, for hunting and timber.

The sun was nearing its zenith when the king beckoned to one of the men of the King’s Own, the sergeant in charge of the squad that had been assigned to ride at the front of the procession that morning. “Tell Sir Glaisdan I’d like a word,” said Roger pleasantly. A night’s rest seemed to have improved his mood as well.

Lord Alexander watched the man ride away, heading down the line of the progress to find the Knight Commander. “A word about what?”

“I want the King’s Own sent ahead of the progress, to Fief Sinthya and Fief Dunlath. To inform them that they should expect to receive us within a month. Two squads should do it, I think.”

Lord Alexander’s face lit up. “I hardly think you need a whole squad to carry messages. One or two people would be quicker than ten.”

The king frowned. “I want Lord Sinthya and Lady Dunlath to understand the gravity of the situation.”

“You could send me.”

The king was silent for a moment, looking thoughtfully at him and Kel. “You’ll rejoin the progress at Fief Naxen,” he said finally, “and behave yourself from here on out.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

“Very well, then. Go to Fief Sinthya. I’ll send a squad to Dunlath.”

“Sire,” said Lord Alexander, bowing deeply to him in the saddle. Then he turned to Kel, motioning for her to follow him.

After retrieving his remount from the supply train at the back of the progress, they rode east ahead of the procession. Gradually the road began to climb until they crested a green hill. As they rode down the other side into a wide valley, the noise of the progress faded away, replaced by birdsong and the wind in the trees.

“Do you hear that?” Lord Alexander said a few minutes later, shutting his eyes and breathing in deeply.

Kel listened, but she couldn’t hear anything out of the ordinary. “Hear what, my lord?”

He grinned at her. “Silence. Glorious silence.”

They had been riding for nearly an hour when she asked him a question she’d been puzzling over. “My lord? Why do Sinthya and Dunlath have to pay? It seems like it would inspire ill feeling, if the king burdened the people he visits during the Grand Progress.” The message they were carrying to Fief Sinthya, inviting the eight-year-old lord and his mother to host the monarchs at a very expensive banquet, certainly sounded like a burden to her.

Lord Alexander smiled grimly. “It does do that, I’m sure, but it also discourages rebellion in a cold pragmatic sort of way. Sir Gareth of Naxen calls it ‘obedience through poverty.’ King Jasson started it, you see, after conquering Barzun. He let most of the conquered nobles keep their lands, but made them pay for everything when he went on progress. If you drain a lord’s treasury, he can’t raise the funds to rebel, and it sends a message to anyone else who might be dissatisfied with the king. The previous Lord Sinthya didn’t get that message, evidently.”

“What did he do, sir?” asked Kel.

He glanced at her. “Conspired with Emperor Ozorne back in, oh, about 449 or thereabouts, to bring immortals to Tortall. I suppose you were still in the Islands then.”

“We were, yes. Do you know why he did it?”

One corner of Lord Alexander’s mouth twitched up. “Evidently he objected to many of the decisions Roger made since becoming king. If I recall correctly, allowing women to become knights was the last straw there, but I think it started with my appointment as King’s Champion. He disliked me quite a bit.”

She frowned. “Why?”

“Largely my ancestry, I think. I’m half Bazhir, and he’d always hated the Bazhir. Of course, part of it may have been jealousy of Roger himself — Sinthya was a mage, but not much of one.”

He gazed at the road ahead, a faraway look in his eyes. “Now that I think about it, the last straw may actually have been when Roger raised taxes on the nobility after a bad harvest back in 448. By about half a percent,” he added, smiling at her. “Now, the king allowed us to apply for an exemption from the tax increase, if we had a good reason for it. That year there had been another drought in Hill Country, so I applied for an exemption. Roger approved it. Lord Sinthya, I recall, found such blatant favoritism to be unacceptable. He made quite a fuss in front of the Council of Lords.”

“That still seems like insufficient motivation for high treason,” said Kel dryly.

“Well, hard to determine his exact motivation,” said Lord Alexander, rather bitterly, “considering he was last seen being carried away by Stormwings to Carthak.”

“Carried away?” she repeated, raising her eyebrows.

“Evidently someone warned him just in time that I was coming to arrest him.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

He shrugged. “Though perhaps Roger knows more about Lord Sinthya’s current whereabouts than I do. After all, he has plenty of agents in the Southern Lands. Sometimes I wonder if Sinthya survived the regime change a few years back,” he added thoughtfully. “I was with the delegation in Carthak when that occurred, and I heard nothing of him then. But then, we were focused on the peace talks.”

They settled into a comfortable silence as they rode on, as Kel tried and failed to picture a man being carried away by Stormwings over the green hills and dense forests of the Lake Region. He had done a cowardly thing, letting his wife and young son suffer the consequences for his treason; she didn’t like the idea of him getting away clean. And she couldn’t quite fit the image of his last flight from Tortall into the sunlit countryside around them.

It was a fine day for riding, though she could see clouds brooding in the east that threatened rain by nightfall. She liked the quicker pace of their journey to Fief Sinthya, and the comparative solitude. This was what she had imagined when she used to daydream about being a squire: just her, her knight-master, and their horses, and the open road unfurling before them.

Kel had laid down a bed of birch bark and was starting to build a fire on it when her knight-master returned from the shadows beyond their campsite, his arms full of pine branches. “Try using the needles for tinder,” he suggested. “The resin acts as an accelerant.”

It had begun to rain just before nightfall, while Lord Alexander was hunting and she was digging their latrine trench. They had flipped a coin for duties, and she had lost.

He crouched beside her, watching her work. “You’ll want to allow for a little more airflow than that,” he said at one point. “Wet wood needs a lot of air to burn.” For the most part, though, he let her build the fire in silence, the same companionable silence they had fallen into for most of their ride east earlier that day. Rain continued to fall steadily around the campsite she’d chosen, though the leaves overhead kept off most of it.

She held her breath as the kindling caught. When the fire began to lick the largest branches she’d laid down, Lord Alexander smiled. “Very good,” he said, and then he put out her fire, knocking over the branches and kindling. “Now do that again.”

Kel inhaled steadily, trying to keep her face stone, but her nose caught the scent of blood from the rabbits her knight-master had killed while she and Shiro were looking for firewood. They were far from cooked, but her traitorous stomach growled anyway.

“You’re wondering how many times I’m going to make you do this.”

“The thought _had_ crossed my mind,” she admitted.

“The answer is twice, provided this fire burns as well as your first try. I want to be sure that wasn’t a fluke.”

Nodding, she began to arrange the bark again, making a platform for her fire to rest on. Now she knew why he’d told her to get extra wood and set it aside. She reached for a log she hadn’t used yet, knowing that the center would be dry, providing her with more tinder and kindling.

“And you’re wondering why I’m making you do this again,” he went on, “when it’s getting late, and you’re tired and hungry.”

“The why of it doesn’t matter, sir,” she started to say, but he shook his head.

“Curse it, Kel,” he said, without any hostility. “I’m not training you to obey me unconditionally. I’m training you to survive in the field.”

“I understand, sir. It’s useful to know how to start a fire in the rain.”

“Very useful. The first year I was a knight, I nearly froze to death along the border near Fief Aili, because I couldn’t manage it.”

She looked up at him, shocked, and he grinned. “I’m from southern Hill Country. If I’m going to die like an idiot, it’s probably going to be in the snow. Well — it wasn’t quite cold enough to snow that night, but I’d managed to get caught out in a storm. Freezing rain. My clothes were soaked. Finally some pine needles caught fire, and my kindling started to dry.”

That didn’t make any sense to her. “But didn’t your knight-master teach you how to start a fire in all kinds of weather?”

He snorted. “My first knight-master was a desk knight. My second one was King Roger, and he can start a fire in his sleep, just by dreaming he’d waved his hand over a candle.”

“But surely your training master—”

“Ah yes, Duke Gareth. Here, let me start on dinner while you finish that, and I’ll tell you a story about _him_.” He reached for the rabbits he’d caught and got to work skinning them, while she built up her fire again. “When I was thirteen or fourteen, Duke Gareth took us into the Royal Forest for a few nights. When we stopped to pitch camp the first night, the work of building a fire fell to me. I didn’t mind. I figured I could use the practice. King Roald liked to keep us safe, you see, because his only son was one of my year-mates. In those days, there was a policy against pages and squires leaving the palace for extended lengths of time.”

She looked up again. “What? I’m sorry, sir, _squires_ couldn’t leave the palace?”

“I know,” he said, smiling grimly. “It sounds like madness, doesn’t it?”

“But how were you meant to learn anything if you couldn’t go out into the field?”

He nodded. “What knight is going to take a squire who can’t leave the palace for more than a week at a time? Someone tired of sleeping in the mud and riding hard after bandits, that’s who. Now, they relaxed that policy after Jon was knighted, and we still went on field trips with our training master as squires, but . . . Kel, I was the best swordsman in my year. I could beat the prince with my eyes closed. And in three years I learned almost nothing from Sir Ricard. I was a glorified secretary.”

She shook her head slowly as she laid down her kindling, trying to keep her face blank. In his place, she wouldn’t want to see pity on her squire’s face. “But you switched knight-masters,” she murmured.

“Well, I had to, after Sir Ricard died.”

That startled her. “I’m sorry, sir. How did it happen?”

“Pneumonia. It was a hard winter. I had a year to go until my Ordeal, so I switched knight-masters — to a master who wasn’t even a knight.” He smiled crookedly when he saw her eyes widen. “You didn’t know that, did you? That Roger isn’t a knight?”

She shook her head again. “I just assumed. But why did he take a squire, then?”

Lord Alexander shrugged. “He wanted one, and he was old Roald’s nephew, so who was going to say no to him?” He paused for a moment, frowning. “I’ve lost track of my story, haven’t I?”

“You were building the fire,” she reminded him.

“That’s right. I got out my flint, and by that time Duke Gareth and the other pages had gathered round to watch. I struck my flint, and Duke Gareth said, ‘Alex, put that flint away. I’m going to teach you boys the first spell any Naxen learns, if he has the Gift.’”

Kel frowned. “But I thought you didn’t have the Gift, sir.”

“You’re right, I don’t. Neither does the duke’s son Gary, or my friend Raoul. Consequently, none of us managed the first spell a Naxen learns with any success, and one of the mages ended up lighting my fire for me. I chose to conclude that Duke Gareth simply forgot that some of his students were Giftless, and not that he actively wanted us to die in the wilderness, but . . .”

She nodded, understanding. He watched as she struck the flint over her tinder, scattering sparks among the pine needles. Cupping her hands around the tinder to guard it from the wind, she blew gently on her nascent fire. The kindling caught, and didn’t go out.

“Well done,” he said quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fact that Kel's riding horse's name translates to "fog" instead of "star" here feels like a metaphor for something.
> 
> Do Alex and Roger's interactions in this chapter feel reminiscent of Raoul and Jon's interactions during the Grand Progress? Yes, absolutely, for sure. A few lines, particularly from Alex's "obedience through poverty" explanation and Dom's cameo, are borrowed from or at least inspired by passages in _Squire_. The anecdote about the first spell any Naxen learns, however, is straight out of _Alanna: The First Adventure_ , and to be fair to Duke Gareth, that was before Tamora Pierce had finished hammering out all the details of her magic system. On the other hand, that anecdote kind of portrays him as someone who maybe shouldn't have been in charge of a group of children. From Alanna's perspective, in the book, this moment is just about her learning a useful spell that helps her defeat the Ysandir a few years later. From Alex's perspective, however . . .
> 
> Speaking of bad pedagogical decisions Duke Gareth has made (though this one is less his fault because he may have been mind-controlled at the time, or at least under pressure from the king), I have a lot of questions about Roger and Alex's knight-master/squire relationship, starting with the part toward the end of _In the Hand of the Goddess_ where it's explicitly stated that Roger is not in fact a knight. My main question, though, is about what happened to Alex's first knight-master, given that we're told in the first book that he only serves Roger for his last year as a squire. We know he has a knight-master before that; we're told that right before the Sweating Sickness hits. What happened to that poor fool? Something ranging from mildly unfortunate (i.e. Roger outranking him, maybe a little light mind-control) to catastrophic, no doubt.
> 
> It's never explicitly stated, of course, that King Roald was so overprotective of Jon as to try to keep all of the squires close at hand, but they do seem to spend a lot of time hanging around the palace, compared to Kel and her classmates. There are a lot of inconsistencies between Alanna's and Kel's respective training years, and a lot of ways to attempt to resolve those differences aside from just chalking it up to different training masters with very different styles. I made a choice here; your mileage may vary. Of course, Roald would have had good reason to be overprotective, given that Jon was his only child and given that the line of succession gets murky after Roger. And, of course, Alex may be a bit of an unreliable narrator.


	9. Flying Lessons

They rejoined the progress at Fief Naxen, as Lord Alexander had promised the king they would. The first thing he did, after they’d settled into their rooms at the castle, was enter his name with the tournament clerk.

The next morning, he was scheduled for his first fencing match just before lunch, giving Kel plenty of time to inspect and clean his armor and weapons. She had scoured his mail before they’d left the palace, but it had picked up dust from the road. After going over it with a polishing cloth, she turned her attention to his weapons. She was inspecting his mace when Lord Alexander returned to their suite to change clothes. He shouldn’t need it at any point, as tournament bouts were an exhibition of skill rather than true combat, but it never hurt to make sure all of his weapons were in good shape.

“Raoul’s on the schedule for tilting this afternoon,” he remarked, as he emerged from his dressing room wearing padded breeches, stockings, and a loose white shirt. “You should watch him if you get the chance, if you’d like to see a real joust.” He pulled on his quilted gambeson over his shirt and breeches. “I shouldn’t need the leggings, I think, just the hauberk. I’d leave the mail off altogether, except I’ve been told one of the hardline conservatives is going around saying he intends to gut me like a trout today because I — encouraged your pretensions? Yes, I believe those were his words.”

“Then I should fight him, my lord,” she said, as she helped him into his mail shirt.

He raised his eyebrows. “Don’t take this from me, Kel. Aside from a few good duels, I have precious little to look forward to for the duration of this gods-cursed parade. Besides, you’re fourteen. I won’t be allowing you to challenge a full knight for at least another three months.”

She nodded, not feeling especially inclined to argue, and reached for the next piece of armor.

“Though I wouldn’t object if you wanted to put your name on the boards for matches yourself,” he went on. “There are plenty of other squires for you to compete against, and it’s good for you to try different opponents.”

“For now I’d prefer just to watch,” she said, as she helped him put on his gorget. “Actually, sir, I’ve seen some jousting already. I watched you joust in a tournament, at the beginning of my third year as a page.”

Lord Alexander frowned, as though puzzled. “Did you?”

She nodded. “It was a few months after we met in Hill Country.”

His eyes widened slightly, as realization dawned. “Ah, that. Well, you should watch Sir Raoul. He’s better than I am.”

“But you won, sir,” she said.

He shook his head slightly, looking uncomfortable. “Tournaments aren’t a pure contest of skill, Kel. You have to take into account things like the order of the matches, the quality of the contestants’ gear, how well-rested everyone is . . . Did you know, when we held that tournament, Raoul had just returned from several months of border duty? He got back to the palace the night before.”

She nodded again, seeing his point. “I suppose he must have been exhausted.”

“He certainly was. You should watch him compete when he’s fresh.”

“I’ll do that,” she said, reaching for one of his gauntlets. “Right hand, sir.”

Kel watched his exhibition duel from the edge of the ground set aside for fencing, wanting to be close at hand in case her knight-master needed her for any reason. Neal kept her company. She still wasn’t sure she liked the idea of tournaments, with their potential for injury, but she enjoyed watching Lord Alexander fight someone who was nearly as good with a sword as he was. For the first time, it sank in how much he had been holding back when he sparred with her.

Lord Alexander won his first match, against a younger knight from Carmine Tower. His black hair was damp with sweat as he sauntered back toward the sidelines, but he didn’t look tired. When he reached her, Kel passed him his water bottle. “Well fought, sir.”

“Thank you, Kel.” He drained the bottle, and then nodded a greeting to Neal. “I’m not on again until two, so I’m going off in search of lunch. Afterward I want to watch some of the jousting. You should join me for that.”

“You know, I’ve never heard him say more than two words to anyone before,” remarked Neal, after Lord Alexander had walked away. “And I’ve spent most of my life at court.”

“He isn’t _that_ quiet,” said Kel, amused.

“Indeed, no,” said an unfamiliar male voice. “He has plenty to say when he’s criticizing you. And every once in a while, he’ll wake you up with one of the horn calls the army uses, to test your knowledge of them. _Those_ are loud.”

She glanced up, and saw a young knight watching them. He wore a padded jacket that hugged his broad shoulders, but no mail. His dark blond hair flopped over his forehead, almost into his brown eyes. Pushing it out of the way, he smiled at her. It was her friend Jasson’s smile: slightly crooked, slightly defiant.

“Good morning, sir,” she said, smiling back at him. She had seen Lerant of Eldorne at court, but they had never been properly introduced before.

“Good morning. Has he played the trick with the horn yet?”

“Not while I was asleep.”

“Interesting. Is he making you live in his spare bedroom?”

“Yessir.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Interesting. A word of warning: don’t try to rouse him suddenly, if he falls asleep around you. He’s been through far too many battles to react well to that.”

It was her turn to raise her eyebrows. “Thank you,” she said, wondering what incident had prompted that piece of advice. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And try not to take what he says too personally. A good rule of thumb, when dealing with Lord Alexander, is that if a human can’t manage whatever he’s asking of you, he already knows it’s unreasonable. It’s like the homework we got when we were pages.” One of the heralds called his name, and he glanced up. “You’ll have to excuse me, I’m needed over there.”

Kel and Neal watched him go, striding out onto the fencing ground to meet his opponent. “Well,” said Neal, “he was either trying to be friendly, or trying to scare you away.”

The match began. Sir Lerant struck first, quick as her knight-master; his opponent barely blocked him in time. “I think he was trying to be friendly,” said Kel, as Lerant’s blade twisted away, transitioning to a low strike without an instant of hesitation.

The fight was over quickly, with the point of Lerant’s sword at his opponent’s throat. “Let’s head over to the mess tent,” said Neal, as the applause died down. “Sir Sacherell put me through the ringer in the training yard earlier, though at least he’s nice about it. How accurate would you say Sir Lerant’s description of your knight-master was?”

Kel shrugged. “He’s not that bad, really. Gavain says he and Lerant didn’t get along.”

They set off in the direction of the mess tent. “Doesn’t sound like it. You know, if he _does_ turn out to be dreadful after all, you can technically apply to the Stump for a new knight-master.”

That was news to her. “Technically?”

“It’s one of the rules, but in practice, nobody does it,” Neal explained, and then he snorted, amused. “Can you imagine his reaction?”

They heard the mess tent before they saw it, a hum of talk and laughter on the other side of a low grassy rise. One side of the tent was open to invite in the breeze, and the tables under the canopy were crowded with knights, squires, and men of the King’s Own, most of them dressed for competition. At one of the far tables, Lord Alexander sat talking with Raoul of Goldenlake.

Movement caught her eye, as Kel joined Neal at one end of the long table where he was beginning to load down his tray with food. She glanced up, and saw Cleon waving to her from one of the nearby tables.

“We just got in,” he told her, when she and Neal had sat down across from him. “Sir Inness was assigned to serve on the Gallan border this spring, but that just ended. He said we might as well join the progress while it was nearby, and I was only too delighted to be reunited with you, my bracing mountain stream.”

Kel rolled her eyes. “How was the Gallan border?”

“Pretty dull,” he replied, looking at their new uniforms with open curiosity. “For a few weeks in May, there was some unrest at Fief Hollycrest in Galla, but it didn’t really spill over the border. We did have a brief run-in with some centaurs right before we left, though. So, what have I missed?”

Neal’s eyes lit up. “ _So_ much,” he said, and began to regale Cleon with the story of the big exams. Within a few minutes, Merric and Jasson joined them at their table.

Kel had just finished eating, and was listening to Cleon tell them about his run-in with centaurs, when she realized her knight-master was trying to catch her attention. He smiled when their eyes met, and beckoned her over to him.

She put her tray away before joining Lord Alexander at his table. Sir Raoul had left by then, presumably to get ready for his jousting match. Lord Alexander gestured to the seat he’d vacated, saying, “There’s something I want to discuss with you.”

“Yessir?”

“The tilting lanes will be free tomorrow morning,” he said, as Kel sat down, “so we can practice there. Sir Raoul has graciously agreed to join us. I want you to try tilting against him.”

She must have heard him wrong. “I’m sorry, my lord, you want me to what?”

“Start practicing your tilting with Sir Raoul,” he repeated patiently, in between the last few bites of his lunch. “When he’s available, for as long as he remains with the progress. He could be called away at any point, so we’re going to make the most of his presence.”

She had found, during their solitary detour to Fief Sinthya, that she could make jokes with her knight-master, remarks that Lord Wyldon would have called insubordinate. That was fortunate, because this conversation felt a bit like a joke. Her mind summoned up an image of Sir Raoul sitting across from him, busily making his way through a small mountain of ham, his massive hand dwarfing his belt knife. “My lord, forgive me, but I think I’d do better to just lie down in front of Peachblossom and let him trample me.”

Lord Alexander laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure his lance is very well padded.” His smile fading, he took a sip of his ale and studied her thoughtfully for a moment. “You’re unusually skilled with a lance for a squire your age, Kel. If you keep growing, you’re going to have the size and strength to really excel at jousting, but that won’t happen if you’re only practicing with me. You need to tilt against a variety of opponents, to learn different styles and techniques.”

She frowned, thinking that over. When put like that, his argument sounded perfectly sensible. At the same time, she remembered watching him practice his tilting with Sir Raoul and worrying a little for his safety — and he was a seasoned knight, not a new squire.

“If you want to be the best,” Lord Alexander continued, “you have to learn from the best. That means you study fencing with me, and tilting with men like Sir Raoul. He’ll go easy on you at first, of course.”

Even if he did go easy on her — because she was a squire? Or because she was a girl? — she knew he would hit hard. With his size and strength, he could hardly do otherwise. “It’s very kind of him to agree to help with my training,” said her traitorous mouth.

“Don’t worry. You’ll do fine.” He glanced at her, hesitating over something, and then went on more soberly, “There is another consideration, of course. Now that we’re on progress, with all these tournaments going on — some of the men who object to my choice of squire are going to want to challenge you rather than me. It’s not particularly honorable, but sooner or later it’s going to happen. I want you to be ready for that day, when it comes.”

She nodded, unsurprised. After Lalasa’s kidnapping, she didn’t think she could be surprised by much, no matter how audacious the attempt to get rid of her.

“At the same time, I don’t want to bait those men while you’re still a new squire, so I want to be selective about when and where we train, and with whom. I’m sure of Raoul.”

“That makes sense, sir.”

Lord Alexander took another sip from his cup. “Now, when you watch him compete today, try to get a sense of how he moves, compared to the other contestants. You’ll want to get into the habit of watching your future opponents.”

Ilane knew better than to relax around the queen, of course, but at the same time it was hard not to like her. Delia smiled warmly at her from across the little table in Lady Naxen’s sitting room, took a tiny sip of the green tea one of Shinkokami’s maids had prepared — an attempt to make her prospective daughter-in-law feel more comfortable in her new home, Ilane guessed, or perhaps an attempt to make Ilane herself feel more comfortable. She waited for Delia to take one of the Yamani sweets arrayed between them, pounded rice flour and chestnut paste, and then took one of the same kind.

“I wanted to congratulate you on Lady Adalia’s marriage,” Delia began, delicately wiping her fingers clean on her handkerchief.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Ilane replied honestly. It had been no small achievement marrying a daughter into the Nond family — a love match, no less, to a boy who seemed genuinely kind and good-hearted.

“They remained in Corus, didn’t they?”

“Yes, the Nonds opened their townhouse for the summer.”

Delia’s face softened into a smile again; perhaps she was remembering the early days of her own marriage. Ilane would have been, had she worn that expression. “How nice. I do hope they’re planning to spend Midwinter at court. Lady Adalia brightens every dance and banquet.”

“I’m sure they are, Your Majesty,” said Ilane, wondering whether this was why Delia had decided to cultivate her — not merely for Shinkokami’s sake after all, but also because she was interested in Adie. Perhaps she was in the market for a new lady-in-waiting. Ilane smiled blandly, hiding her ambivalence at that idea. The queen treated her ladies very well, according to court gossip, but the king was said to be quite the flirt, and sometimes a bit too insistent about it.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Delia. “And I’m sure you’re pleased to have your youngest daughter on progress with you.”

“Yes, I am.” Ilane flashed a smile at Shinkokami, who sat between her and Jessamine.

Delia took another sip of her tea, hiding a grimace at the taste. “Such a well-mannered girl. Still, one can’t help but worry, from time to time, seeing her around all those boys.”

They were, perhaps, coming to the heart of the matter at last. “Keladry is a very strong-willed girl,” said Ilane. This was familiar territory for her, especially after navigating so many conversations about Kel with Lady Florzile, who was now Adie’s mother-in-law, which told that those conversations had ultimately been a success.

Jessamine reached for one of the sweets flavored with green tea. “She’s better than most of the boys, too.”

Ilane glanced at her, expressionless, feeling absurdly grateful toward her. This was familiar territory, but she was thoroughly _tired_ of it by now. She hadn’t foreseen that the princess might be her ally here, but in retrospect she should have. After a few glaive practices with her, she had recognized something in Jessamine: the determination to be contrary. She remembered Oranie having had that for a while; certainly Conal had been contrary his whole life, and worse. She supposed, dimly remembering her own adolescence, that they had gotten it from her.

Delia pursed her mouth slightly. “Is she? According to whom?”

“Gavain and Jasson,” replied Jessamine. “I know Gavain hates page training, but I think we can trust Jasson to be more objective. Besides, Uncle Alex noticed her, didn’t he?”

The briefest twitch of Delia’s eyebrows, but her smile held. “Yes, I must admit I was surprised by that. Do you know him well, Lady Ilane?”

“No, I don’t.”

“He’s a very dear family friend — my lord loves him like a brother — but of course he’s not without his faults.”

“And what are those, precisely?” She glanced at Jessamine, who was watching her mother with a slight frown.

Delia took another sip of her tea. “He has very high standards — for himself, and for everyone around him. Of course, he wouldn’t have made it as far as he has if he didn’t. Still, he can be — harsh, at times.” She cocked her head slightly, frowning a little, as though she had just thought of something that troubled her. “I wonder . . .”

Her voice trailed off; she clearly wasn’t going to finish that thought, only let it hang in the air like a dark cloud. “How fitting,” Ilane cut in. “Keladry has very high standards for herself as well.”

Delia’s face softened to sympathy. “How tiring that must be. It _is_ an odd goal for a girl to have, isn’t it? When my lord issued that proclamation allowing girls to become knights, I honestly didn’t expect any to apply.”

Ilane saw, out of the corner of her eye, Jessamine narrow her eyes, and Shinkokami reach for her hand, squeezing it briefly. “Keladry believes wholeheartedly in the ideals of chivalry,” she replied. “And of course she was raised at the Yamani imperial court. It’s quite common for noblewomen there to learn to use polearms, to protect their honor.”

Delia glanced toward Shinkokami. “Such an interesting custom. No doubt it was difficult at times, adjusting to such a different culture.” She smiled gently at her daughter-in-law. “I hope you don’t find us too strange, dear.”

“Oh no, Your Majesty,” Shinkokami assured her.

“I didn’t find that aspect of Yamani culture to be too different,” said Ilane. “After all, we arm some of our priestesses at the Goddess temples.”

Delia blinked. “True. Did Squire Keladry never think of becoming a priestess?”

“She decided against it. She said she didn’t wish to be confined.”

For a moment, the queen’s smile froze on her face. “I see.”

“Of course, she was quite young at the time. But in retrospect, I don’t think that temple life would have suited her.”

“Too young, I suppose, to fully comprehend the consequences of her choices. A good marriage will be difficult for her.”

“We have discussed that,” Ilane said simply.

Delia studied her face thoughtfully for a moment. “Men so often see women primarily in the context of other women, don’t they? Comparing one lady to another, like they’re trying to choose between dishes at a banquet.”

Or like horse breeders, thought Ilane, understanding her perfectly.

“I worry that perhaps there are those who see Keladry only in the context of her predecessor — the last girl to wear a squire’s uniform.”

“I see what you mean, Your Majesty. The scandal over that would make it even more difficult for her to marry.”

Delia nodded. “Not only that. I wonder if her knight-master sees her that way.”

Ilane felt herself tense involuntarily. “Do you think so?” she asked, taking another sip of her tea as she recalled a scene from a long-ago party: a squire and a young knight sizing each other up on the sidelines of a palace ballroom, an overheard and half-remembered conversation about what it meant to excel at something publicly, to have everyone constantly watching you and picking apart your every flaw.

Delia shrugged. “As you say, you don’t know him well. Personally, I can’t imagine another reason he would take her as his squire.”

She reached for another sweet. “I believe Lady Cythera is planning to organize a boating party on Lake Naxen before lunch. Would you and Baron Piers care to join us?”

“Of course,” said Ilane, glad when the conversation turned to other matters, gladder still when Delia dismissed her. But that last comment about Kel’s knight-master had wormed its way under her skin, as it had surely been meant to. As she left the sitting room, she turned it over in her mind.

She knew Lord Tirragen mainly by reputation: he was the king’s shadow; one of those grim desert lords like Martin of Meron, laconic and unsmiling. He was friends with the Naxens, particularly Sir Gareth and Lady Cythera, which spoke well of him, but he wasn’t sociable as a rule. She had wanted someone kind for Kel, a knight-master with a gentler touch than Wyldon — who meant well, in his own way, but whose humorless striving for perfection had done nothing to temper those same qualities in Kel. Ilane had wanted water for her, not more stone.

Of course there were unsavory rumors about Lord Alexander — there always were, at court, especially about the people within a ruler’s inner circle. To find someone whose reputation was entirely clean was rare, and suspicious in its own way. The king had tried to quiet any whispers about his ascension to power — Lady Alanna’s flight from the palace, the death of the last crown prince, the subsequent deaths of Lianne and Roald — but gossip was harder to kill than people, and what shadows lingered there clung to Lord Alexander as well. And of course there were some who whispered that they were too close, given the open secret that was the king’s history of bedding men — and how neatly Delia had dispelled _that_ rumor. For whose benefit, Ilane wondered?

The question of who was bedding whom at court was usually more about alliances than anything else, and that didn’t interest her in this case. Ilane had heard about sufficient challenges to the crown from afar — and while she was at court, watched Lord Alexander calmly wipe sufficient blood off his sword — to know that his loyalties lay squarely with the king, regardless of the exact nature of their relationship.

What worried her more was Alanna of Trebond. She had spent time at court during Alanna’s squire years; and when she had been home at Mindelan, she’d received letters from Anders, then a page, who had idolized the squires and young knights and dedicated quite a lot of ink and paper to reporting on their activities. It was hard to remember, now, to what extent she had been aware of Lord Alexander’s rivalry with Squire Alan at the time, and to what extent her memories had been colored by later events, her mind conjuring up barbed comments at parties and the sight of his eyes fixed on her throughout banquets, like a cat watching a bird. Surely, even then, she had thought it was ridiculous for a full knight to be so fixated on a squire, to care so much about proving he was the better swordsman, when she had thought about him at all.

Had it come as a surprise when she had learned the truth about Lady Alanna? It must have, though she couldn’t recall precisely when and how she had heard that story. They had been at Mindelan that winter, she thought. How fickle was memory. It hadn’t come as a surprise when Lord Alexander had been appointed King’s Champion at the coronation, though — that, at least, had seemed inevitable.

He wasn’t a _nice_ man, for all that he had bought Peachblossom, and paid for his room and board for four years. She remembered Inness’s letters as well, rambling epics full of stories about his classes and his year-mates. One of Inness’s friends had been Lord Alexander’s squire, and the man had always come across as a bit of a bully in those secondhand tales, the kind of knight-master who would push you to the edge of exhaustion, and then treat any resultant injuries as useful lessons. Inness had always seemed to pity his friend as well as envy him for being squire to the King’s Champion. But those letters were over a decade old now, and surely, to some extent, gave a distorted version of the man seen through the eyes of boys. A man could change in a decade — though, of course, only if he had an incentive to.

It was a fine morning for a walk along the lakeshore; though the sun was already high in the sky, there was a breeze to keep off some of the heat, and a scattering of clouds to the south. No sign of rain in the near future, but perhaps a little cloud cover for the boat ride, if the wind picked up. The grounds of Naxen Castle were quiet, save for the low hum of insects in the grass. She let the sound wash over her, let the breeze cool the sweat on her skin. Solitude calmed her somewhat, a brief respite from the constant political jockeying of court life.

There was no tournament set for that morning, but she wasn’t surprised to see a pair of mounted knights practicing in the tilting lanes. Ilane heard them before she saw them, their horses’ hooves thundering over the earth; she came within sight of the lanes in time to see them collide, lance against shield. The smaller knight’s lance broke. As he turned his destrier away, riding back toward the end of his lane, she recognized the horse.

That was no mounted knight — that was Kel. Now she recognized the man who slid down off the fence to fetch her a new lance. Kel leaned down to take it from his hand, lifting her visor to better hear whatever he was saying to her. Ilane didn’t know how she had missed Lord Alexander initially — he had always stood out at court, with his dark coloring and plain clothes, and he wore no helm to hide his face. She certainly couldn’t have mistaken Kel’s opponent for him. The other mounted knight was clearly a much bigger man, even from a distance. As she tried to place him, he removed his helm and ran a massive hand through his sweat-soaked hair. Raoul of Goldenlake.

A cold feeling washed over Ilane. Before she knew what she was doing, she had changed course, her legs carrying her toward the fence. She was still yards away, unnoticed, when both riders nudged their horses into a gallop.

Sir Raoul’s lance struck home, low on Kel’s shield. Kel rose from her saddle. Ilane stopped suddenly, momentarily frozen as her daughter flew several feet, to land heavily in the grass. Then she started to run.

Hearing her footsteps, Lord Alexander turned, looking impassively up at her. He had returned to his seat on the fence. “Good morning, Lady Ilane,” he said, squinting a little in the sunlight.

“Tell me that is not my daughter jousting with Raoul of Goldenlake,” she began, trying to sound conversational.

In the lanes, Kel sat up and tugged off her helm. Guiding his horse over to her, Sir Raoul reached down to help her to her feet.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” said Lord Alexander, raising his eyebrows slightly.

Ilane wanted to smack them off his face. “My lord, that man is six foot four and outweighs her by well over fifty pounds.”

“Raoul’s lance is padded. I can assure you —”

“Do you mean to tell me you do this to all of your first-year squires? The healers’ fees must be exorbitant.”

His eyebrows ascended a little higher. “Few of my previous squires have been so skilled with a lance at fourteen.”

Except for the eyebrows, he was so expressionless that she almost felt as though she were back at the Yamani court. It hadn’t been the noblewomen wielding glaives that had been hard to get used to, at first: it had been learning to read everyone’s faces, becoming fluent in the body language of an entirely different culture, a culture where the nobility preferred to confine their extravagant displays of emotion to poetry. Who had taught Lord Alexander to be so impassive? The tiny variations in his expressions weren’t those of a Yamani nobleman; she couldn’t read them nearly as well.

“At what point in their training do you usually pit your squires against giants?” she asked, wondering if he cared at all whether Kel got hurt. If she landed wrong and broke an arm, if Sir Raoul’s lance cracked one of her ribs, would his expression change?

One corner of his mouth moved slightly, in the general direction of a smile. “Typically I wait until the second year. Lady Ilane, are you questioning my training style?”

He sounded faintly amused. As though she had no right to be at all alarmed that her fourteen-year-old daughter had just been knocked from her saddle by a behemoth with a lance. As though Ilane hadn’t raised three knights who had spent years fighting for the crown. She inhaled slowly, taking a step closer to him. “If you’re trying to drive her away, to bully her into quitting, you don’t know Kel. She won’t give up, no matter what you throw at her. She was prepared to repeat four _years_ of page training after she missed her examinations because somebody kidnapped her maid.”

Lord Alexander blinked. “What?”

She had spoken unwisely. In retrospect, the queen had gotten into her head, and now she had lost her temper with one of the king’s favorites. “I wasn’t issuing a challenge just now,” she said more calmly. “I’m just trying to make you understand how badly she wants to be a knight.”

“You think I’m trying to drive her away?” he repeated, looking baffled. She ought to have been pleased to have managed to get a rise out of him, but she found that she wasn’t. “I’m trying to _help_ her.”

“Mama!”

Ilane turned, startled, and saw Kel waving to her from her tilting lane. Her visor was up; she was grinning. “Have you come to watch my flying lessons?” she called, and Sir Raoul burst out laughing.

There was a trick to knocking somebody off their saddle, Kel had discovered. “You popped me out,” she said to Sir Raoul after she had mounted Peachblossom again. “Like somebody levering a clam from the shell.”

He nodded eagerly. “Exactly. It doesn’t work every time — often as not the other fellow knows, but sometimes he’s green or overconfident. Try it on another squire, or one of the younger knights.”

That reminded her of her knight-master telling her she needed to tilt against a variety of opponents. She glanced toward the fence, and to her astonishment, saw Lord Alexander arguing with her mother.

“Not him,” said Sir Raoul, looking in the same direction. “He knows the trick. And not me — my behind’s too full of lead.”

Kel turned back to him, startled by the joke, and grinned. Then she turned back to the fence, waving to attract attention. “Mama! Have you come to watch my flying lessons?”

They glanced up in unison, Ilane’s eyes widening, as Sir Raoul roared with laughter.

“You’re just about done in,” he said, when he had recovered. “One more round, and then we’ll call it a day?”

“Yessir,” she replied, drowning out the more sensible part of her that was thinking no, never, absolutely not. If he had gone easy on her, as Lord Alexander had said he would, she didn’t think she wanted to know what it felt like when he put his full strength into every hit. She lowered her visor and nudged Peachblossom into a trot, heading back to the end of her lane to do it all over again.

This time her seat was better when he hit, and she didn’t fly off her horse. She slammed into the high quilted back of her new tilting saddle, as her lance shattered against his shield. When her vision cleared, Sir Raoul was examining his own lance from the neighboring lane. “This wouldn’t have lasted another run,” he observed, and then saluted her with it. “Well done, Kel.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Her mother met her at the fence, halting just outside of Peachblossom’s biting range. “Are you all right? Do you need to see a healer?”

“I’m fine, Mama,” said Kel, though she didn’t trust herself to dismount yet. She was fairly certain she’d just collapse to the ground if she tried.

“You’ll feel more alive after a bath and a nap,” said Lord Alexander, with the faintest of smiles.

Lady Ilane didn’t even glance at him. “The queen has asked me to join her boating party this morning,” she told Kel, her mouth twisting briefly to show her how she felt about that invitation. “I’m afraid I have to go round up your father and dress for that. I may not see you again until the banquet tonight. Don’t forget about your bruise balm, and don’t hesitate to see a healer if you feel something’s not right. It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“Yes, Mama.”

When she was gone, Lord Alexander turned back to Kel, raising his eyebrows at her. “Can you walk back to the stable?”

Walking, when it came down to it, was only moving one foot and then the other; she didn’t have to do it well for it to count. Keeping that in mind, she slid down from her saddle. “What were you and my mother arguing about, my lord?” she asked, when she was on the ground.

“Nothing,” he replied, with the same closed-off expression he’d worn at Castle Blythdin, when he had managed to dodge a conversation about his history with Alanna of Trebond.

Kel leaned against Peachblossom for support, narrowing her eyes at her knight-master. There was a difference between letting someone have a little privacy and letting them be overly secretive at everyone else’s expense. “My lord, surely you realize I can just ask her about it later.”

He sighed. “Fair point.”

“She was worried I’d get hurt tilting against Sir Raoul, wasn’t she?”

He nodded. “Your mother seems to be under the absurd impression that I’m trying to drive you away from your training.”

“What?” said Kel, shocked.

“I have no idea why. I hardly know your mother, and I can’t imagine what she thinks she knows about me. I told her that driving you away was the opposite of what I wanted to do.”

Kel was silent for a long moment, thinking that over. It didn’t make any sense, unless . . . Unless he had tried to do something very similar before.

“Sir Raoul gave you some useful advice, I trust?”

“What? Oh — yes, sir.”

“Good. I noticed you stayed in your saddle that last run. Well done.”

“Thank you, sir. I learned the trick of it.”

Just as he’d said, a long soak in the bathtub and a nap restored most of her will to live. She didn’t see either of her parents again until the banquet that evening, though when she glanced out her bedroom window, on her way to her bath, she saw a small fleet of colorful boats gliding over Lake Naxen.

At the banquet her parents were, somewhat awkwardly, seated with Lord Alexander, as well as Sir Gareth and Lady Cythera of Naxen, and Prince Eitaro and his wife, Lady Setsuko.

“— glad the congress is over, at least,” Sir Gareth was saying as Kel approached their table with a finger bowl and towels. “I got tired of watching Lord Trebond make faces behind the speakers’ backs.”

Lord Alexander smiled at that.

“Though I wish we’d managed to resolve the matter of Lord Shaila’s salt mine,” Sir Gareth went on, as Kel offered her finger bowl to Prince Eitaro. “It seems insulting to commend you for not kicking up a fuss in the middle of a morning session, but the Eldornes set the bar pretty low this year.”

Lord Alexander chuckled. “I’m sure they’ll calm down soon. I doubt the queen wants her father going to war with his neighbors.”

“That would be one way to liven up the Grand Progress.”

“I won’t say I wouldn’t mind getting a cut of the profits. Part of the mine must be under my land, after all, and plenty of Shaila’s convict miners will be coming directly from my magistrates’ courts. Assuming the king rules in Shaila’s favor, that is.”

Sir Gareth raised an eyebrow. “You think he won’t? Has he said anything to you?”

“Not a word,” said Lord Alexander, with a shrug.

“His Majesty has to issue his ruling soon, doesn’t he?” said Lady Cythera. “If there are any disruptions to the caravans coming up from the salt flats in the south —”

“Tensions with the Bazhir, do you mean?” said Lord Alexander, looking interested. “Thank you, Kel,” he added quietly, as she offered him the finger bowl. He rinsed and dried his hands neatly, and then went on, “Or were you thinking of Pearlmouth and Fief Kendrach?”

Kel saw her glance toward Prince Eitaro. “Both, really,” she replied. “My lord says it’s been an unusually wet spring in the south. If the harvest there is poor, and there are escalating tensions in the desert . . .”

“Not to mention tensions in Carthak,” said Sir Gareth. “You’ll recall Lord Kendrach’s concerns about sea raiders during the council meetings.”

At last Kel offered the bowl to her parents. “You didn’t need to see a healer, did you?” asked Lady Ilane, smiling up at her. “Sir Raoul hit you very hard, from the look of it.”

“No, I didn’t get hurt,” Kel assured her. She was still sore, but a little bruise balm had cleared up the worst of it. “There was a lot of padding on his lance.”

“Good,” said her mother, but Kel saw her glance over at Lord Alexander, her face unreadable.

“Your mother told me you flew out of the saddle,” said Baron Piers.

“My seat was wrong,” she explained. “And there’s a trick to it, popping somebody out of the saddle. Now that I know it, I won’t be as likely to fall for it again.”

When Kel returned with the first course, lake trout poached in almond milk, she found her mother trying to engage Lord Alexander in conversation. “— was fortunate enough to see Sir Lerant compete yesterday,” she was saying. “He’s a very fine swordsman.”

“Thank you, Lady Ilane,” he replied, his back so stiff he might have been mistaken for one of the chairs. “He’s a credit to his family.”

That was a neat bit of diplomacy, thought Kel, to compliment his last squire rather than directly address the disagreement over her training that they’d had earlier. And there was diplomacy, too, in the way he had modestly deflected the compliment, even with his obvious discomfort over it. With any luck, that would be the end of things.

She didn’t catch them talking to each other again that evening, but she didn’t catch them glaring at each other either. When the banquet was over, the guests retired to the darkened terrace to watch a troupe of illusionists perform. Kel was stationed near one of the doors leading into the ballroom; from where she stood, holding a tray of drinks, she could see the illusions shimmering over the lake, great clouds of color that bent and unbent themselves into flowers, animals, immortals.

Conversation hummed around her, a low murmur under the periodic gasps and applause. From somewhere nearby, she could hear Lord Thom’s running commentary, as he archly critiqued each of the illusions in an undertone.

“— can’t understand why they put so much detail into that, without making it _bigger_. It just looks fuzzy from this distance. Such a waste of good magic.”

“I remember when you used to create illusions for Midwinter parties,” said Lord Alexander to him.

“Gods, don’t remind me of that. How Roger loved watching those translucent dragons cavort overhead while he enjoyed his almond cake and mulled wine.”

“Did you ever catch yourself thinking, I took my exams early for _this_?”

“Constantly. Do you ever find yourself bored out of your skull on some border patrol or another, looking around in vain for angry Scanrans, and wondering why everybody lied to you about the glories of knighthood?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Lord Alexander, “sometimes there’s a bit _too_ much glory for my taste. You didn’t have to wear my parade armor the day after Midsummer.”

“It did look _awfully_ nice on you, though. A nice ornate pot for a boiled crayfish.”

She heard her knight-master laugh, and felt herself relax. It was obvious to anyone listening to them, to the comfortable warmth of their conversation, that they were old friends, just as it was obvious to anyone who had heard Lord Thom tell stories about his sister that he loved Alanna. Surely he wouldn’t be friends with anyone who had tried to drive his sister away from her training. Still, she didn’t think her mother would have accused Lord Alexander of that out of nowhere.

Cleon appeared in the lighted doorway behind her. “Here you go, Kel,” he said, thrusting a tray laden with full drinks at her, to replace her nearly empty one.

“Thanks,” she said, as they switched trays.

He lingered there for a moment, watching the sky with her. Over the lake, a tangle of vast roses painted in red, pink, and green light bloomed. “Would that I might pluck one of those fire-flowers from the sky to give to you, fair lady,” said Cleon.

Kel shook her head, smiling. “You’ve used that one before, I think.”

“My sincerest apologies. It’s been a long day.”

“You know, that’s almost what the Yamani call mage-lights for show like this — flower-fire.”

“Do they really?” he asked, looking interested. “I didn’t know that. Great minds, I suppose.”

They stood for a moment in silence, watching the mage-lights, and then Merric hissed his name. “Cleon! I’m out of drinks!”

He sighed. “Alas, duty calls. I hope to see you again before the night is over, flower-fire of my heart.”

“That just sounds like a medical condition,” she said, and he laughed.

He ducked back into the ballroom, and she went back to watching the light show and listening to the idle talk of the courtiers. The illusions began to grow larger and more elaborate, clearly building to a crescendo. As the last and grandest illusion faded away into darkness, a small fleet of Yamani-style lanterns floated out over the terrace, lit softly by magic.

Knowing that was her cue, Kel stepped away from the door and weaved through the crowd with her tray of drinks. Master Oakbridge had told them to mingle with the courtiers. Though she was seeking someone in particular, she tried not to make that too obvious.

He had wandered away from Lord Alexander at some point; she found him standing near a hedge of night-blooming flowers, looking resplendent in gold and white. Lord Thom had curled his hair for the banquet, and the mother-of-pearl earbob he wore matched the stones embroidered over his gold tunic. As Kel approached him, he was regarding the youngest prince with an expression of amused resignation.

“But what’s it _short_ for?” asked Prince Alexander.

“It isn’t.”

The boy frowned. “It’s just ‘Thom’? Why?”

“It’s a family name.”

“But why is it spelled like that?”

Thom sighed. “Perhaps it was short for something originally. _I_ don’t know. Every so often a really eccentric Trebond crops up amidst all the painfully boring ones. I wouldn’t be shocked if one of my ancestors had taken a perfectly ordinary name like Tomlan and decided to switch up the spelling and shorten it so it no longer made any sense.”

Prince Alexander nodded conspiratorially. “I understand, I have a lot of highly questionable ancestors, too. Hello, Squire Keladry,” he added, taking a cup of juice from her tray.

“Hello, Your Highness,” she replied, smiling at him.

“Mm,” said Thom, seeming to warm a little to this new topic of conversation. “Which one is your least favorite, would you say?” He plucked a cup of wine from the tray and saluted Kel with it.

“Royal or non-royal? I can’t abide Roald the Horse-Tamer. Anyone who raises taxes to the point where people are burning their grain just to make a point, and all to fund his parties and his horse-breeding . . .”

“That, and you’ve never cared much for horses.”

“That, too.” His eyes focused on something behind Kel, and widened slightly. “Oh, look! Jasson’s got a tray of cheese pastries.”

“Thank the gods for the cheese pastries,” said Thom after the prince had wandered away. “Otherwise he’d have stuck to me like a bur for the rest of the night.”

“He’s certainly curious,” said Kel, thinking again of Neal, and how she’d like to see him have a conversation with the youngest prince.

“Oh yes, constantly asking questions. Duke Gareth once told me that his father was the same way as a child. What an exciting life Duke Gareth has led.” Thom took a sip of his wine, and then lowered his voice. “Now, I assume you’re meant to be wandering about offering drinks to people, so the fact that you stuck by me throughout that conversation suggests you have something to tell me.”

“Not here,” she murmured.

He nodded slowly. “There’s a library near my rooms — in the southeast wing, just beyond the second ballroom. Meet me there after you’ve returned your tray and whatnot.”

She nodded, and then moved on, offering drinks to Lady Haname and the group of young knights who had flocked to her, and then to Shinkokami and Prince Jonathan, who stood among the roses having an excruciatingly polite conversation while the queen smiled indulgently at them from a few yards away.

Eventually the courtiers began to drift inside and to bed, and the floating lanterns dimmed. The library was deserted when she reached it, save for Thom, who was lounging in an armchair in the corner. At the sound of the door closing behind her, he glanced up from his book.

Kel sat down in the chair next to his. “I wanted to ask you about your sister, my lord,” she said. “About my knight-master’s relationship with her.”

He didn’t look at all surprised. “Ah, that. Has he talked about her much?”

She shook her head. “Not yet.”

“Thought not. He’s always been very secretive, has our Alex.” He closed the book in his lap. “As I understand it, they were very good friends at first, when she was new to the palace and he could give her all kinds of helpful advice. Then she started getting better with a sword, to the point where she could give him a run for his money — and then they were rivals. Friendly rivals at first, I think.”

Her stomach sank a little. “Did he try to get rid of her?”

Thom raised his eyebrows. “In what sense?”

“Drive her away from the palace. Bully her, I suppose,” she added, thinking of Joren without meaning or wanting to. “She _did_ leave in the end, after all.”

“Well, she had to, after the king sent her away.” He hesitated for a moment, tilting his head and resting his cheek on his hand, fingers curling almost to hide his mouth, and hugging his other arm across his torso for support. “It wasn’t Alex who told Roald the truth about her, mind you — that was Roger. Alex didn’t find out until after she was gone.”

“Oh,” said Kel, filing that away for later contemplation. She had already known that Alanna and the king had never gotten along; now it sank in that at some point, Lord Alexander must have been forced to choose between them.

Thom leaned forward, his eyes fixed on her face. “Why did you think he might have tried to drive her away?”

“It was something my mother said to Lord Alexander, apparently. She saw me practicing my jousting with Sir Raoul this morning, and she was worried I might get hurt.”

His eyebrows rose dramatically again. “Raoul of Goldenlake? That giant Alex likes hanging about with? I don’t blame her. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m told he went easy on me.”

Thom shuddered. “All the same, that sounds like an appalling way to spend your morning.” He gazed into the fire for a moment, looking thoughtful. “I imagine she _was_ thinking of my sister when she said that to him.”

“But you said —”

Thom shrugged, a rigid, slightly jumpy motion. “Well, he’s Roger’s man. Sometimes people conflate them.”

Kel was beginning to get the sense that he didn’t really want to be having this conversation; it was in the way he tensed up at certain points, as if there were something about Alanna, or perhaps the king, that he wanted to avoid saying out loud. “He’s the King’s Champion,” she said, wondering about listening spells here, so far from the palace. “Shouldn’t he be loyal to the king?”

He relaxed slightly; whatever he was trying to avoid, they seemed to have moved away from it. “To the crown, certainly,” he said, sprawling back in his chair. “Not necessarily to the king on a personal level — though in practice, that line is usually blurred. Kings tend to appoint their friends to that role, after all, and it’s largely a ceremonial one these days. Duke Gareth was King Roald’s brother-in-law, and as far as I know, he didn’t do a blasted thing when he was King’s Champion. But — Alex has always had a hard time seeing Roger’s flaws. Which is unfortunate, considering he’s one of the few people Roger might actually take criticism from.”

Kel nodded, thinking that she was beginning to understand his point now. “My father once said that rulers aren’t always nice people.”

Thom smiled faintly: a weary, slightly brittle smile. “Your father was entirely correct. They are _people_ , after all, and people have flaws. Well,” he said, suppressing a yawn, “it’s getting late. We should probably get some rest.”

When she got back to the suite of rooms she shared with her knight-master, Lord Alexander’s bedroom door was shut and there was no line of light showing under it. She stood for a few moments in the dimly lit sitting room, gazing out the window at the moon hanging full and golden over the lake, and thinking about loyalty. Someday she would likely have to make her own choice between personal loyalty and her duty to the crown; she only hoped she’d make the right choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few lines are borrowed from _Squire_.
> 
> I love Raoul, but the man is _gigantic_. Too many of the male characters in this series are ridiculously tall.
> 
> I'm not sure whether big flashy mage illusions are the one-to-one equivalent of fireworks in the Tortall universe, but in the middle of writing that scene and making some of the illusions flowers, I suddenly remembered that the word for "firework" in Japanese used the characters for "flower" and "fire," which resulted in the linguistically and culturally dubious exchange that Kel and Cleon have. I'm not all that invested in Kel/Cleon in the books, but I really enjoy his weird epithets for her.


	10. Decorative and Deadly

After leaving Fief Naxen, the Grand Progress continued east, stopping at Fief Sinthya for a few days and then curving northwest along the border, heading into the mountains. Kel hadn’t thought the pace of their journey could get any slower, but the steep terrain and narrow northern roads proved her wrong. She kept waiting for some sign of bandits or immortals, to break up the monotony with a fight. Late one afternoon, a scout sighted a small group of killer unicorns about a mile ahead, but the king sent two mages and a squad of the King’s Own to deal with them, and Kel never even saw them herself. By the time they reached the southern pass into Fief Dunlath, nearly a full day behind schedule, she was ready to scream.

“Two _years_ of this?” she asked her knight-master a few hours later, after losing a fencing bout to him in the training yard the Dunlath men-at-arms used.

“Now you understand how I feel,” replied Lord Alexander, stretching out his forearms. “Nice aggression, Kel. I want to see more of that. Ready to go again?”

Fief Dunlath had, admittedly, a veneer of infamy that even Fief Sinthya had lacked. The castle was situated on an island in the middle of a cold, mirror-bright lake at the center of a densely forested valley, which gave it the sense of being set apart from time. Kel had lived enough of her life at Fief Mindelan that she didn’t find the castle particularly gloomy, unlike some of her friends from further to the south, but it did seem profoundly empty to her. It was more or less fully staffed, but the family consisted of one girl scarcely older than her and her crown-appointed guardian.

“One of the hostlers told me, completely straight-faced, that she’s a werewolf,” said Neal of Lady Maura, as the squires ate their early supper before the banquet.

Seaver raised an eyebrow at him from across the table. “A werewolf?”

“He was testing you,” said Esmond, “to see how gullible a duke’s son might be. Commoners do that sometimes, you know.”

“Well, then he’s wasted as a hostler. He ought to be a Player, he was that believable. No, I’m afraid I asked around and found that he’s not the only one who’s heard that story, or some variation on it. The common thread seems to be that the wolves of Fief Dunlath assisted in bringing down Lady Maura’s traitorous sister and brother-in-law.”

Jasson frowned. “Didn’t the Wildmage help, too? That would account for the wolves.”

“That’s what I told the hostler,” said Neal. “Unfortunately he was hired on after she disappeared in Carthak, never to be heard from again, so he scoffed at that idea. Wild magic, he said, that’s fairy tales. No, the truth can only be that Lady Maura is a werewolf, and the wolves here answer to her as their queen.”

He had looked right at Kel as he’d said “never to be heard from again.” She met his eyes squarely, a warning look in them. Neal was the only person she had ever told about meeting Daine the Wildmage one night in the stables, during her first year as a page, and she preferred to keep it that way.

“Hang on,” said Merric, “I’d always heard that werewolves aren’t even real. They’re a story made up to explain mages who can transform into animals.”

“Ah,” said Neal, his eyes lighting up, “you’re half right there. From what I’ve read, the myth about werewolves was largely inspired by one particular mage, Engilrand Shadowglass, who lived around the time of Asaron the Third. You see . . .”

Sensing that they were at the beginning of a long lecture, Merric groaned and tossed one of his dinner rolls at Neal, who caught and ate it.

At the banquet that evening, as she hurried back and forth between her knight-master’s table and the serving room, Kel often found herself glancing up at the dais, where Maura of Dunlath sat alone amidst the royal family. She was a small, stocky girl of about sixteen, with brown hair she wore plaited up under a sheer veil. She spent most of the evening talking politely with King Roger, showing no sign that she felt burdened by the expensive banquets she had been invited to host. She certainly didn’t look like someone with the power to command wolves.

Lord Alexander was seated just below the dais, with Lady Maura’s guardian, Sir Henrim, as well as three of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting, two younger knights wearing Rosemark and Fenrigh colors, and Lady Haname. As the evening wore on, Kel began to have the odd sensation that she was watching snippets of a play, the kind where all of the characters were in love with the wrong people.

With every dish or jug of wine she carried to the table, she found Sir Henrim trying to engage Lord Alexander in a new topic of conversation, usually by asking a question about something he had heard was happening in some other part of the realm, usually Corus, while Lord Alexander kept looking pointedly at someone else. But the knights from Rosemark and Fenrigh showed more interest in talking to the queen’s ladies than to Lord Alexander, and the queen’s ladies reserved most of their smiles for whichever knight was paying less attention to them. By the time Kel appeared with the second meat course, roasted boar with a mint jelly, Lord Alexander had latched onto Lady Haname, who was telling him her thoughts on the merits of Yamani versus Tortallan longbows while he listened intently; in that one respect, at least, Master Oakbridge’s seating charts hadn’t been a complete waste of paper.

After the banquet came the dancing. Kel was still clearing dishes away when the king rose from the table on the dais, so she was treated to the vaguely absurd sight of him offering his arm to Lady Maura, a girl his daughter’s age whom he was effectively blackmailing into hosting this party. Lady Maura took his arm with a bland smile, allowing him to lead her into the ballroom while Prince Jonathan offered his arm to his mother, and Prince Eitaro offered his to Shinkokami.

The ballroom had the feeling of a room that hadn’t been used much for decades. A dim, cavernous space, it had clearly been dusted and aired out recently, but the furnishings and wall hangings were years out of fashion, and there was a faint aura of decay about the place that Kel tried and failed to define as she slowly circled the dance floor with her tray of canapés. Perhaps it was merely the same emptiness that plagued the rest of the castle, the sense that a great many people had lived there at one point, but were gone now.

By the time she completed her first lap around the room, she saw with some measure of relief that Jessamine had more or less adopted Lady Maura. They were sitting in late fourth century chairs beside the enormous fireplace at the far end of the room and talking animatedly about ice skating on the lake, while a few yards away, Shinkokami and Jonathan were talking decidedly less animatedly about different styles of Yamani poetry. Kel paused for a moment, watching them. It had been just over nine months since Shinkokami had arrived in Corus, but she and Jonathan had barely moved past the same kind of phatic conversations that Kel had overheard Shinko having with Duke Gareth and the king. Something had to be done, before they decided to kick off their wedding night by discussing the weather.

The contrast between whatever was going on between them and real romance was clearer when she passed Sir Lerant talking with one of the younger queen’s ladies, who appeared to be hanging on his every word as he regaled her with the story of the last time he had visited Fief Dunlath.

“— beset by crows,” he was saying to her as Kel drew closer to them, holding out her tray. “Birds of all kinds, really, hundreds of them — but it was one of the crows that spoke to Lord Alexander.”

“How frightening,” said the queen’s lady, with a note of glee in her voice. “Did it threaten him?”

Lerant nodded. “It told him that Dunlath is a cursed place, and we ought to leave immediately. Hello, Squire Keladry,” he added, taking a pastry from her tray. “Having a good time in the haunted castle?”

“It’s certainly enlightening,” she said, trying not to sound quite as skeptical as she felt.

“It may sound outlandish, but everything I say is true,” he assured her, gesturing with the pastry to underscore his point.

Kel offered the queen’s lady something from her tray, but she shook her head, smiling at her, and then returned her full attention to Lerant, as he went on, “Fortunately we were wearing our helms, or the birds would most likely have disfigured us.”

“How perfectly _dreadful_. What about the wolves, did they attack you as well?”

Leaving them to their macabre courtship, Kel moved on, and went back to trying to figure out what to do about Shinko and Jonathan. Her plan coalesced in an instant when she ran into Yukimi, who had just finished dancing with one of Prince Jonathan’s friends among the younger knights. “Oh, I love these,” said Yuki, taking an almond tart from Kel’s tray. “Didn’t we have them at Naxen as well?”

Her pronunciation of _Naxen_ had improved markedly over the past few weeks. “I think so,” said Kel. “Yuki, I have an idea.”

Yuki’s eyes glittered with mischief. “Uh oh.”

She set Yuki to the task of rounding up Shinkokami and Lady Haname, while she went to find Jasson and convince him to lure his cousin into a neighboring sitting room. Then she began the search for her knight-master.

Lord Alexander had found a corner where he and Sir Raoul could stand with their backs to the wall and talk idly about jousting. Kel paused in front of them. “Almond tart, my lords?”

“Thank you, Kel,” said Lord Alexander, reaching for one.

“Are you enjoying the party, sir?”

He made a face. “As soon as Roger gets off the dance floor, I’m planning on wishing him good night and sneaking off to my room. Why?”

“I overheard Prince Jonathan and Princess Shinkokami talking, when I was on that side of the room,” she explained. “It’s been nine months, and they’re still so uncomfortable around each other. I thought that if we could get them into a more relaxed setting, with people they like, they might start to warm up to each other.”

He nodded slowly. “And without the queen breathing down their necks. You may have a point. What do you want me to do?”

“Help me get them talking. You’re his godsfather; you know him a lot better than I do, and you can serve as a chaperone so nobody will mind if they leave the party. I asked Lady Yukimi and Jasson to find some of their friends and get everybody together in one of the sitting rooms. With any luck, they’ll feel more comfortable in a smaller party.”

“And if the king objects to my leaving the ballroom, I can tell him I was doing a good deed.” He glanced at Sir Raoul. “Want to get out of here for a bit?”

When they reached the sitting room, Shinko and her ladies were already there. The party started well enough, with Lord Alexander brightening at the sight of Lady Haname and asking her a question about something she had said over dinner. She was explaining her views on recurve bows when Prince Jonathan walked into the room, trailing Jasson and Neal.

“I thought it sounded like fun,” said Neal, when Kel raised an eyebrow at him. “A little subterfuge in a haunted castle.”

Before long, Sir Raoul had joined what was becoming a spirited discussion of tactics and strategy, and Kel began to feel that her plan was working. Lady Haname was an excellent conversationalist on just about any subject, but she had a thorough knowledge of warfare in particular, and Kel was pleasantly surprised to find that both Lord Alexander and Sir Raoul, who often seemed like planks of wood at banquets, came alive when talking to her. After about ten minutes, Shinko relaxed enough to voice an observation about the use of archery in Yamani naval tactics, which was when things began to go south.

Jonathan turned to her. “I didn’t realize you knew anything about warfare,” he said, as Kel watched a parade of emotions march across his face: surprise, confusion, discomfort.

Shinko’s face became a polite mask again. “Not very much, Your Highness. I grew up at the emperor’s court, and one learns things in passing there.”

She grew quiet again after that exchange. Kel saw Lady Haname’s eyes widen slightly in alarm, before she smoothly turned the conversation to Tortallan court fashions. Lord Alexander, bored by fashion, tried to steer it back around to battle tactics, but before he managed to succeed, the door opened again and Jessamine slipped into the room. “ _There_ you are, Jon. Father wants to introduce you to Lady Maura’s steward — he’s a Genlith, so you’ll want to be very formal and a little haughty.”

Her brother tried to wave her out of the room. “I’ll be along in a minute, Jess.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Great Goddess, you’ve got half the squires in here. Yuki, have you met Lady Maura yet? She’s really quite lovely.”

Kel wasn’t surprised when Shinkokami left with her as well, with Lady Haname trailing after them. Jonathan watched them go, frowning. “She’s never said anything about battle strategy before,” he said to Lord Alexander, after Jasson and Neal had drifted out of the room in their wake.

Lord Alexander tilted his head, regarding him thoughtfully. “She practices with a polearm every morning, Jon.”

The prince’s face flushed slightly. “Well, yes.”

“Shouldn’t a queen know how to manage an army, in case it falls to her to lead it?” said Kel, trying to keep her face neutral and her voice even. It surprised her a little, how furious she was with Jonathan.

He blinked, evidently thinking that over. “I don’t think my mother knows how,” he said at last. “I should go, before Father tracks me down himself. Good night,” he added, more cheerfully.

When he had left the room, Lord Alexander said quietly, “You know, he’s probably right about his mother. _I_ wouldn’t trust Delia to lead an army.”

Still fuming, Kel returned to ballroom duty. It felt like an eternity before the royal family went to bed; in reality it might have been an hour or two, which was still far too much time to be alone with her own thoughts.

Jonathan had _never_ shown any discomfort when discussing battle tactics or weaponry with Kel. Had that been a lie, or did he just have different standards for the girl he was about to marry? Shinko had known, somehow — she remembered her worrying that Jonathan would find her unmaidenly — but Kel had always thought those worries were unfounded.

At last the royal family decided to go to bed, and she returned her tray to the serving room in a gloomy silence. Most of her friends were lodging in the village on the other side of the causeway; after bidding them good night, she stalked along the darkened corridors toward her room, in no mood to talk to anyone else.

Her room was in one of the towers, up a narrow flight of stairs, down a long gallery lined with portraits of Lady Maura’s ancestors, and then up another, longer flight of stairs. The gallery was dark when she reached it, lit by moonlight spilling through the narrow windows, and a few mage-lamps of a poorer quality than the ones that illuminated the palace, placed sporadically along the walls. She was halfway between the staircases when she felt the draft, like a wind blowing down from the snow-capped mountains to the north. She shivered, ice prickling like needles down her spine, and then she saw it.

Shimmering white, in the shape of a person. At first she thought it was moonlight. Then the figure turned toward her, and she could see it more clearly: a man, lean and bearded, dressed in a tunic and hose. His face was very pale, his eyes hollow black pits. He was nearly transparent; moonlight passed through him, to dully illuminate the flagstones beyond.

Kel blinked at him, startled, and he smiled. Then he was gone, vanishing as suddenly as he had appeared, leaving her alone in the darkened gallery.

Alex hadn’t been especially pleased to return to Fief Dunlath, even before he’d watched Jon attempt to single-handedly ruin his own betrothal. He managed to catch him before he left the ballroom, after Finnian of Genlith had walked away. Roger was in the midst of dancing with Prince Eitaro’s wife, so he would be no help to anyone at the moment.

“Forgive me for being blunt,” said Alex, “but you could have handled that better.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “I’m going to assume you’re talking about the scene in the sitting room, unless I’ve just committed some horrific faux pas with Lord Finnian as well.”

“Do you know what an _asset_ a wife who understands tactics and strategy is? In your great-grandfather’s day, when the previous Lord Eldorne was killed during a siege with the Tusaine, his lady successfully held off the invaders for another week before reinforcements rode in from Corus.”

Jon gazed back at him, a little sullenly. “With all due respect, Uncle Alex, you aren’t married.”

“No, I’m not. Neither are you — yet.”

He opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it. In the center of the room, a dance ended, and another one began. “That bad, do you think?”

“Generally you aren’t supposed to insult your betrothed.”

“I didn’t mean to _insult_ her. I was surprised, that’s all.”

He said it as though it explained everything. After a moment of waiting for clarity, Alex sighed. “You’re right, I’m not married. I don’t understand your position at all. Why don’t you explain it to me?”

Jon hesitated, and in that instant Alex realized that he himself probably didn’t entirely know what had so unsettled him. “It’s not how girls are supposed to act,” he said at last.

Alex had a sudden memory of Jon’s mother, then a girl of seven, grimly hurling rocks at a hill lion. They crushed it out of them, he thought, in those convents. But — perhaps not completely, if Delia’s grandmother had held off a siege.

He couldn’t recall where he’d first heard that story about Fief Eldorne — whether from his father, as part of a dry general history of the region; or his nursemaid, a true hillwoman; or his mother, who might have learned it from the present Lady Eldorne, with whom she was very good friends. His own mother had never held off a siege, but she knew what ought to be hurled from the castle ramparts in the event of one, and she knew the name of every Tirragen man-at-arms and routinely asked after their families; and he had an old memory of her walking along the castle walls, pausing to gaze at one of the bandit heads his father had had mounted there, as a warning, and remarking, “I do wish they wouldn’t drip so much on the stone.”

“In battle, you use what tools you’re given,” said Alex. “I was called to Port Legann once to help fend off a pirate attack, and ended up on the castle wall with Lady Marielle. She’s a very fine archer; we were lucky to have her there.”

“I’m not planning on dragging my wife into battle with me,” said Jon cheerfully, with the air of someone delivering the punchline of a joke.

Alex shook his head, annoyed. “If I had to marry, I’d want a bride with whom I had some common ground —”

“I wish everyone would stop talking about marriage as though it were a grim duty.” He glanced around. “Oh, look at that — Stormwings.”

Alex turned. Judging by the crown on the female’s head, she was the queen of some local flock or another, come to pay her respects to Roger. She perched on a wooden structure near one of the open doors leading out onto a small terrace, close enough to him and Jon that he could smell the old blood and decomposition clinging to her and her companion: her guard, or perhaps her mate, a younger male who perched watchfully beside her, gazing around the room with wild gray eyes.

Roger stood beside them, holding a perfumed handkerchief to his nose while they conversed. Alex watched them for a moment, unsettled by how much the Stormwing queen’s human face resembled that of his mother, with her high cheekbones and aquiline nose, her flashing dark eyes and the regal tilt of her chin.

“I’ll probably be expected to greet them,” said Jon, still sounding as though the whole conversation were some sort of grand joke to him. “Best get it over with, I suppose. What’s the usual advice, take shallow breaths through your mouth? Take a step back if your eyes start to water?”

Alex watched him saunter over to his father’s side, looking as carefree as a page set loose in Corus after months of good behavior. He was so much like his namesake sometimes that Alex had the urge to kick him.

At last even Roger grew tired, and the party began to break up. Exhausted, Alex trudged up to his rooms to read the letter that had been waiting for him when they’d arrived at Fief Dunlath. How fortunate it was that everyone, including his cousin, knew the expected route of the Grand Progress; the letter was dated well over two months ago, but evidently Mikal had known he would be turning up at Dunlath sooner or later. He broke the seal and unfolded the letter to find what appeared to be ten pages about crop planting.

He was halfway down the first page, rereading a sentence for the third time without retaining any information, when the door to the sitting room opened. Alex glanced up, blinking wearily.

There was an odd look on Kel’s face: she was a little paler, a little more wide-eyed than usual. Perhaps he had been looking for that, though; he had been on his guard since they’d first set foot on Dunlath soil. “Is something wrong, squire?”

She managed to compose her features, not unlike Princess Shinkokami in the sitting room pretending that Jon hadn’t hurt her feelings. “I’m all right, my lord. I thought I saw something in the gallery.”

Alex gave up on the letter, focusing what was left of his attention on her. “Did you? What?”

“I think it was a ghost,” she said, a little wonderingly.

He hadn’t been expecting that. Talking animals with faces that changed like wax melting, yes, but not ghosts.

Out of nowhere, he had a distant memory of Roger telling him, right before the squires had left for Persopolis over twenty years ago, that he doubted the Black City would trouble him at all. “It’s rare for anyone to see ghosts, especially someone who isn’t a mage,” he’d explained, as soothingly as if he were tucking Alex back into bed after a bad dream. “And I highly doubt that whatever plagues the Black City is worse than a few stray ghosts.”

And Kel wasn’t a mage. Alex studied her for a moment, frowning. She had seen _something_ , certainly. Something had spooked her, down in the gallery in the dark, and she wasn’t the sort of girl who spooked easily. “How odd,” he said at last. “I hadn’t expected this place to actually be haunted.”

“I _knew_ Sir Lerant was exaggerating.”

Alex stifled a groan. “Oh gods, what is he going around saying?”

“Something about birds, my lord,” she replied, as briskly as a guardsman reporting to the Lord Provost. “I didn’t catch all of it, but he was telling one of the queen’s ladies a story about the two of you being menaced by crows and wolves. He claimed that one of the crows spoke to you.”

He sighed, dimly recalling that the Wildmage had in fact been a raven at the time. “He shouldn’t be telling such tales. I have no wish to rain trouble down on Lady Maura’s head, and that’s all these odd rumors are doing. What did the ghost look like?”

“It was a man. Short hair, like yours, and a short beard. A nobleman, by the look of him. He was wearing a tunic and hose.” She hesitated. “It could have been an illusion, I suppose, but I can’t think who would have cast it.”

“Someone playing a prank, perhaps,” said Alex slowly, an idea beginning to take shape in his mind.

“A malicious prank. It was a very _good_ illusion. The temperature dropped right before I saw him.”

Alex nodded. “I’ll look into it. You’d better try to get some rest now. The castle isn’t haunted,” he added, glad when she looked somewhat reassured by that.

There weren’t many skilled illusionists traveling with them, not ones with the power and control to pair realistic visuals with a chill in the air, and fewer still who might feel motivated to do something like this, which narrowed down the suspects considerably. He began in the morning, with the first person who had come to mind.

Thom had been placed in a suite of rooms near the staircase leading up to the tower where the king and queen slept, presumably so he could be at their beck and call if they so desired. The door opened at Alex’s second knock, to reveal a young man with neat brown hair and a look of calm disdain, wearing the livery of Fief Trebond. “His Lordship isn’t here,” he said. “He left around dawn.”

Thom never voluntarily rose before dawn, so that suggested he hadn’t gone to bed the night before. “Where did he go?”

The man shrugged one shoulder very slightly, just enough to convey that he neither knew nor particularly cared. “Forgive me, my lord, but he didn’t specify. He did say something about a tower.”

The bloodrain, thought Alex. Everybody wanted to find the tower where they’d brewed that cursed bloodrain. “Thank you,” he said, setting off toward the staircase where he’d once heard the Wildmage’s voice whispering to him out of the darkness.

It took him a while to find the right staircase, and when he did, it looked deserted at first. But Thom had gotten a head start, so he was probably at the top of it by now. Ignoring the sense of unease that prickled down his back, Alex began to climb the stairs.

The first sign that he wasn’t alone appeared on the first landing, in the form of a white mist that hovered in the shadows where the stair twisted around again. Alex paused, frowning at it, and then heard a familiar voice.

“Blasted daylight. It just looks so much _better_ in the dark.”

“Good morning, Thom.”

There came a silence that felt almost guilty. After a moment, Thom stepped down onto the landing. He wasn’t wearing last night’s clothes, which came as a pleasant surprise, but he didn’t really look as though he’d slept either. There was a feverish light in his violet eyes, and the dark shadows under them were unusually pronounced. “Is it morning, then? I’d lost track of time.”

“You know perfectly well it’s morning,” said Alex, tucking his thumbs under his belt as he settled in for a long conversation. “What are you doing?”

Thom waved a hand airily. “Nothing that concerns you.”

“You frightened Kel.”

He frowned. “Did I? She doesn’t seem like the sort who frightens easily.”

“Well, ‘startled’ might be more accurate. Why are you haunting the castle?”

“I?” said Thom, as the temperature on the landing dropped significantly, and the mist between them solidified into the vague shape of a man. The ghost’s features were indistinct in the morning light, but Alex caught the suggestion of a trim beard, not unlike Thom’s. “I believe you mean Lord Belden.”

Alex sighed heavily, recalling what it had been like to find the man’s body in his bedroom, chalk-white and rigid from poison, and arrange for him to be transported back to Corus to be burned on Traitor’s Hill. Thom’s illusion was in very bad taste, really. “ _Why_?” he asked.

The mist vanished, and the temperature returned to normal. Thom extracted a milky round crystal from one of his pockets, whispered something to it, and waited. Nothing happened. Nodding with satisfaction, he stepped closer to Alex and murmured, “I’m attempting to hasten our departure, because that poor girl cannot afford to host our party for very long and still be able to feed her people through the winter. I know what northern winters are like. And that’s not to mention all the problems with the mine.”

The scent he wore lingered faintly in the air between them, faded almost to nothing by the long hours since the party. Alex breathed it in, chasing the memory of it as he asked, “What problems with the mine?”

He certainly wasn’t on the verge of throwing his life into turmoil over Thom, but he could admit that the man was attractive. He was also decidedly off-limits in the way that all of Roger’s former lovers were — but the duration of their relationship made him especially dangerous, as did the fact that Thom had managed to stick around afterward, thoroughly embedded in Roger’s inner circle. Fortunately, Alex had always possessed a healthy amount of self-control. He could enjoy Thom’s company, his conversation and his often flamboyant good looks, without ever feeling the need to escalate things. Besides, Thom just liked flirting; he had never meant any of it seriously.

Thom’s eyes flashed, and Alex realized he might be in for a long rant. “The _runoff_. It’s infuriating. She paid a mage from the City of the Gods to build some sort of filter, to trap it and purify it before it ran into the lake, but it’s begun to fail. Do you know, she approached _me_ about it yesterday, to ask whether I could take a look at it? That signifies real desperation.”

“Your reputation precedes you,” Alex agreed. “Well, she certainly has courage.”

“Courage? Who _cares_ about courage? The girl needs money.”

“Why not give her a few of your stray jewels, then, instead of filling her castle with fake ghosts?”

Thom gazed reproachfully at him. “Finnian of Genlith keeps a close watch on the household accounts,” he explained, with infinite patience. “As does the tax collector.”

Alex snorted. “This is the Lake Region. Her tax collector is Gary, or one of his men. She probably gets him in person; her father _was_ a duke. I’ll give you Finnian, though. Man’s little better than a bad simulacrum.”

“Sir Gareth the Younger?” said Thom, looking appalled. “That pedantic know-it-all? I’d rather have a Stormwing collect taxes from me. At least they’re openly rude, instead of just making faces behind your back all the time.”

Alex smiled. “He says the same kind of thing about you.”

“Oh, I have no doubt of it. Can’t imagine what Alanna saw in him. At any rate,” he went on, smiling like a cat who had just found an unattended roast chicken, “everyone who was already gossiping about this heap of old stones being haunted is doing half my job for me. All I need is a few more ghost sightings and a few hours alone with that filter system, and with any luck, things will start looking up for Dunlath.”

His shoulders slumped a little, now that he had run out of unkind things to say about Gary. Now he looked uncharacteristically soft and rumpled, standing there in the gray morning light, tousle-haired and wearing shades of blue under his black-and-gold mage robes. “You should get some rest,” said Alex.

“Absolutely not. I have far too much to do. Now, are you going to leave me to it, or are you going to help me?”

Help him? Alex frowned, confused, and then remembered how he had spent a great deal of his last year as a squire, over half a lifetime ago: standing for hours in the doorway of Roger’s workroom, well into the night, holding lumps of crystal or empty brass scales, while Roger did mysterious things behind shimmering veils of orange light, and then finally being dismissed and tumbling into a dreamless, exhausted sleep. “Help you fake a haunting so we can leave Dunlath sooner?” he said, expecting Thom to pass him the crystal from his pocket.

Thom only smiled again, slow and sweet like honey. “Precisely.”

“Of course. What exactly do you want me to do?”

They departed from Fief Dunlath two days earlier than they had planned, after the queen and several of her ladies saw the ghost of Lord Belden in a darkened corridor on their way back from that evening’s banquet. As they rode across the causeway the next morning at the head of the progress, Kel heard her knight-master mutter, “Goodbye Dunlath, and good riddance.”

She had learned the truth about the apparition when Lord Thom had stopped her on her way down to breakfast their third morning in the castle, to apologize for having frightened her. He had only wanted to reduce the burden on Lady Maura, he’d told her, and after hearing his explanation, Kel had been inclined to forgive him. In the end, she was mainly just surprised that his prank had worked so well.

“It helps that Lady Melantha was one of the people frightened by the ghost,” Lord Alexander had said, while Kel was packing to leave Dunlath.

Kel glanced up at him, raising her eyebrows inquiringly.

“The king has grown — particularly fond of her, of late.”

Her eyebrows rose a little higher, but she didn’t reply: she didn’t think she wanted to know.

The fabled wolves of Dunlath had kept their distance throughout their stay, but as the Grand Progress traveled north along the lakeshore toward the mine and the mountain pass, Kel could have sworn she saw movement in the trees, as though something big there kept pace with them as they rode.

The progress continued west along the Scanran border as the summer wore on toward autumn, first heading north to the sprawling lands of Fief haMinch. While they were on the road there, Lord Thom and Princess Jessamine left the procession, riding ahead to the City of the Gods. Because the king had given Sacherell of Wellam the task of protecting them, along with a squad of the King’s Own, Neal went with them.

She wasn’t the only one who felt a pang of loneliness at their absence. Lord Alexander looked like a man on his way to the gallows as he emerged from his dressing room that first night at Fief haMinch, his hair wet from the bath. “Half of the interesting people here have left us,” he said, surveying the banquet clothes Kel had laid out for him. “Lord Thom, Sacherell, even that chattering friend of yours.”

Kel smiled. “No doubt he and Lord Thom are getting along splendidly.”

“Oh, no doubt.” Then he sighed. “Oakbridge will probably seat me with a host of marriageable young ladies and their mothers. If you have any mercy in you, Kel, you’d slit my throat right now.”

“Nonsense, my lord. Think of the mess. The Minchis would be furious.”

“Oh, very well. I’ll get dressed, then.”

She managed to disarm Shinkokami during their naginata practice the next morning, which wasn’t at all like Shinko. “Are you all right?” Kel asked her after she had recovered her weapon, worried that she might be sick. She hadn’t seemed as lively during practice as she usually did since that ill-fated conversation with Jonathan at Dunlath, but she hadn’t dropped her weapon either.

“I’m fine,” said Shinko, her expression perfectly neutral. “I’m sorry for startling you.”

But as they walked back toward the corridor where both their rooms were, she said, “Maybe I should give up the naginata.”

Kel stared at her, horrified. “Did Jonathan say something else to you?”

“No, but I’ve been thinking that it might cause strife, after we’re married.”

“He’s being stupid. You should talk to Jessamine — she might be able to knock some sense into him.”

Shinko smiled slightly. “She’d enjoy that, I think.”

Kel wasn’t sure whether anything resulted from that suggestion, but Shinko did seem more focused the next morning. There was a tournament over the next two days, which left Kel too busy to spend much time worrying about her, and then they were all caught up in preparations to move on.

Beyond the northern plains of Fief haMinch lay the eastern reaches of the Grimhold Mountains, where the road wound between steep rocky cliffs and a sloping stretch of dense pine forest as it neared Fief Carmine Tower. Something about the terrain reminded Kel of those long-ago imperial processions, where bandits had waited in mountain caves for the sound of the approaching horses. Feeling a prickle of unease over her back, she checked that her weapons were handy and then fixed her eyes on the forest.

The wind had picked up, whistling sharply through the trees. Loud as it was, it took a few moments for her to realize she was hearing something else beneath it: the heavy thrum of massive beating wings. The king shouted a warning, nearly drowned out by the sound of Shiro barking frantically, setting off a cacophony of dogs down the length of the progress.

“Leave it be,” Kel hissed to Shiro and the sparrows, who had begun cheeping sharply. She looked up just as the first hurrok crested the cliff to their right, talons extended and great bat wings briefly dimming the sun behind it. Its eyes, set forward in its skull as no horse’s eyes should be, were fixed on the procession.

Crown ruffled her feathers and peeped loudly again. “I mean it,” Kel told her. “There’s going to be arrows flying around in a second, not to mention magic. You could get _hurt_.”

She hurried to string her longbow as several more hurroks followed, circling low overhead. Her animals stayed put, Shiro in his leather carrier and the birds on Peachblossom’s mane, for which she was grateful — in her peripheral vision, orange fire flared, consuming the lead hurrok. As it fell screaming among the trees, Kel nocked an arrow and picked her target.

Pale blue fire, to her left. She glanced over and saw Yuki, grim-faced, cupping a ball of light in her hand as she eyed the hurroks, waiting for the right moment. In front of her, Prince Jonathan put an arrow to his bowstring and took aim. Kel saw Shinko’s hands clench on her reins, her face lifted toward the sky.

That’s not fear, she thought, reaching for another arrow — it’s frustration.

“Sergeant Osbern’s squad, to me!” That was her knight-master’s voice, pitched for the battlefield, calling in the men of the King’s Own who had been charged with protecting the front of the progress that day. “Longbows!” he shouted, and out of the corner of her eye, Kel saw the king move his hand in a quick upward circle, amplifying Lord Alexander’s voice. “Pick your shots and loose at will!”

She heard hoofbeats from behind her as she loosed her arrow, aiming for a hurrok that had swooped down to harry the queen’s ladies. She needn’t have bothered — pale blue fire enveloped the immortal an instant before she struck it, and three more arrows from other bows followed hers. The hurrok dropped, crashing into a tree.

Jonathan loosed an arrow. Hardly thinking, motivated only by instinct and vague annoyance, Kel nocked another arrow and aimed it at the same hurrok, feeling satisfied when hers buried itself squarely in its throat. The hurrok tumbled out of the sky, crashing into the side of the cliff as it fell.

I’m being petty, she thought, still wishing he had turned around to see who had loosed the second arrow. Wishing, more than that, that Shinko had her own bow with her.

A dark pinprick opened in the sky overhead, rapidly growing larger. Trying to ignore it, Kel nocked another arrow and picked another target. She could feel an unpleasant pressure building in the air, tugging insistently at her skin. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her knight-master’s face turn ashen. “Shit,” he muttered, as he loosed an arrow. It punched through one of the eyes of the hurrok Kel had just shot, bringing it down. “He’s back.”

The pinprick widened to a dark tear in the sky, its ragged edges shimmering with purple fire. As the pressure in the air grew stronger, the nearest hurrok disappeared into the rift, shrieking as it was sucked away. The hole closed up again, and Kel’s ears popped. She swallowed, her mouth dry, and shot the last hurrok.

Her arrow struck it in the shoulder. Ignoring the wound, the hurrok swooped in toward her, as one of the King’s Own shot at it and grazed its wing. Gritting her teeth, she reached for another arrow. As she took aim, a slanting wall of red-orange fire appeared suddenly between her and the hurrok, shielding the progress from harm. The immortal crashed into the wall at speed and slid down it, landing in a crumpled heap on the road in front of them.

In the silence that followed, Kel heard her own heart pounding in her ears, and then, out of nowhere, Neal’s voice. “Anyone hurt?”

Taking a deep breath, Kel took stock of her sparrows, the few who had chosen to come on progress with her rather than stay behind with Lalasa. They were all accounted for, as was Shiro. She turned, and saw the small party that had appeared just ahead of them, where the road bent to the right. At the head of it rode Sir Sacherell, who had positioned himself between the pine forest and Princess Jessamine, with Thom of Trebond riding on her other side and Neal just behind them with a squad of the King’s Own. Kel watched with alarm as Thom swayed slightly in his saddle, white-faced.

“They’re gone, Jessamine,” called the king, pitching his voice to be heard over the wind. “You can lower the partition now.”

She waved her hand, and the reddish-orange wall shimmered and then vanished, allowing her father to ride forward a few steps.

For a moment, Roger merely gazed down at the hurrok that had landed in the road, his head cocked slightly to one side. From where she was, Kel couldn’t see the expression on his face. “Still alive,” he announced, and then he moved his hand, writing a sign on the air in orange fire.

The hurrok began to burn. Kel forced herself to watch as the fire climbed higher and then died down again, leaving only ash behind. When the road was clear, the king nudged his horse into a walk, beckoning for the rest of the progress to follow.

“Do you need to be tied to your saddle?” Lord Alexander asked Thom, as the princess’s party fell in with theirs.

Thom inhaled shakily. “Please.”

“If you’d only stop doing that to monsters —”

Thom fumbled for something in one of his saddlebags, retrieved an amber-colored glass bottle, and took a swig from it. “That’s better,” he said, as some of the color returned to his face.

“Give me some of that,” said Lord Alexander, reaching for the bottle. “I need it after watching the sky eat a hurrok.”

Thom slipped it back into his saddlebag. “I don’t think you’d like it much. Tastes like feet.”

“What did you do exactly, my lord?” asked Kel, curious. “Where did you send the hurrok?”

He waved his hand airily. “Somewhere else.”

“He did that to a wyvern once,” said Lord Alexander.

She stared at them, shocked. “A wyvern?”

“I watched him. It attacked the northern wall around dawn; I was leading a group of archers when he stumbled over to us in his dressing gown, still half asleep, and did something with his hands. The same thing happened: the pressure in the air, the sky opening up. Nearly threw up.”

Thom smiled at him. “Admit it, Alex. You missed me.”

Lord Alexander rolled his eyes. “You’re right. I missed your weird, horrifying magic and your constant inane chatter. Every minute we were apart was torture.”

“I missed you desperately, too,” Thom assured him. “Everyone in the City of the Gods was far too cheerful for my liking.”

Kel glanced away, amused, and caught Neal’s eye. “I had a grand time on our little detour,” he said. “I got to annoy all of my old teachers. How was Fief haMinch?”

“More of the same,” she replied. “There was another tournament. Tell me about the City of the Gods.”

They rode on, as she listened to him recount stories about his former teachers, and what they had been up to since he’d left to begin his page training. At one point, as their conversation fell into a lull, she caught a brief exchange between the king and Lord Thom, whose horse had fallen into step with his. “These blasted immortals,” she heard Roger say. “Kaddar’s opened an inquiry into how they were summoned precisely, and which of Ozorne’s mages were responsible, but so far it’s turned up nothing useful. His next letter had better have some good news.”

“Well, then you’ll be pleased to hear that in the City of the Gods, they’re hard at work trying to figure out how to send them all back,” Thom replied coolly. “Of course, if you keep setting them on fire, they’ll have nothing left to send back.”

Kel shivered, remembering the hurrok lying in the road with its legs twisted under it, and the way it had screamed as the flames had begun to consume it. The creature had died quickly, at least, but not painlessly.

Splashes of yellow and orange were beginning to show in the leaves of some of the trees as the Grand Progress reached Fief Mindelan. For the first time in four years, Kel saw her nieces and nephews. They were shy with her at first, though they climbed gleefully over Cleon, who had visited Mindelan before with Sir Inness.

“Don’t worry,” said her brother Anders, who had been surprised to find she was nearly as tall as he was now. “In a little while they’ll besiege you.”

At dinner that first evening, Lord Alexander was seated with Anders and his lady Tilaine, as well as a young knight and two of the queen’s ladies.

“How odd it is to see you waiting on us here like one of the maidservants,” Tilaine remarked, when Kel offered her the finger bowl and towel at the start of the banquet. “Or one of the footmen,” she added, eyeing her uniform.

Anders frowned, as Kel did her best to emulate stone. “I’m tasked with serving at whichever table my knight-master is seated at, my lady,” she replied, looking pointedly over at Lord Alexander, who was in conversation with the young knight.

Tilaine glanced in his direction, and then toward the nearby dais where the royal family sat with Kel’s parents and Prince Eitaro. “Of course,” she said, looking a little subdued, much as she had when Kel’s mother had set her and Inness’s wife, Vorinna, to mending several years’ worth of old linens after Kel had overheard them saying it was just as well that Kel was going to try for her knighthood, because no man would want a girl built along the lines of a cow. “That makes sense.”

Kel moved onto the next diner, the young knight, whom she thought she recognized as one of Lord haMinch’s sons. “Thank you,” he said, as he dried his hands neatly on the towel.

The lady beside him smiled warmly up at her. “It’s Squire Keladry, isn’t it?” she asked, as she rinsed her hands.

“Yes, my lady,” said Kel, returning the smile. It was especially welcome tonight, now that she’d been reunited with one of her sisters-in-law, but it would have been welcome on any night of the progress. Unmarried as he was, her knight-master was often seated with young ladies, and they didn’t always look kindly at her.

“I’m Uline haMinch. I believe I’ve met your sisters — Lady Adalia and Lady Oranie?”

“It’s kind of you to remember them, my lady,” said Kel, offering the bowl to the young lady seated between her and Lord Alexander.

“I liked them very much. I would have liked to have attended Lady Adalia’s wedding, but I’m afraid the queen was on a visit to Fief Eldorne then, and we all went with her. I did send her a note.”

“That’s very kind.”

“I’m glad to meet you, Keladry,” she said, as Kel suppressed the urge to glance over at her sister-in-law. Throughout their conversation, Lady Uline had pitched her voice to ensure that Tilaine would hear her.

The banquet and dancing ran late that evening, and the next morning Lord Alexander awoke around dawn with a cold. Kel was in the midst of her pattern dance when he stumbled into their shared sitting room, bleary-eyed and sneezing. She paused, setting down her practice glaive. “I’m going to fetch Duke Baird, sir.”

He sank into one of the armchairs beside the fire, resting his head on his hands. “I suppose you’d better. I feel like something’s chewed me up and spit me out.”

“You ought to rest more.”

He snorted, and it turned into a cough. “One could say the same thing about you.”

After Duke Baird had placed a healing on him, Lord Alexander announced that he was going back to bed, as he didn’t trust himself to remain upright for much longer. “Do a few of your sword exercises,” he told Kel, before stumbling back into his bedroom. “Then take the rest of the morning off. I’ll see you at lunch, I hope.”

She went back to her pattern dance. After she’d finished that, and done a few solitary sword drills, she decided to go for a walk. The morning was cool and bright, with a hint of frost in the air under the scents of woodsmoke and wet leaves, and she found that she wasn’t in the mood for company yet. Armed with her longbow and her sword, in case she ran into trouble, she set out into the woods, headed for the River Domin.

The forest was peaceful that morning. She met no one on the path, and saw no one when she reached the water’s edge. For a few minutes she stood there on the bank, gazing out across the shallow river, remembering the day she had tried to kill a spidren with a handful of rocks.

She found a few flat stones along the river’s edge and skipped them across the water. Her first stone hit the surface at the wrong angle and sank, but after two more, she remembered the trick of it. When she ran out of stones, she turned back, feeling vaguely dissatisfied. She didn’t know what she had expected to feel here, in revisiting the place where she had started down the path to knighthood, but whatever it was, it seemed to have eluded her.

Returning to the castle grounds, she cut across the kitchen garden, where she was surprised to run into Prince Jonathan. “ _There_ you are,” he said, his face lighting up when he saw her. “Jess was looking for you. She and the Yamani ladies want to play that game with the pretty fan.”

Kel raised her eyebrows. “You came to find me, Your Highness?” It explained why he was wandering about the kitchen garden, she supposed, but if Jessamine were going to deputize any of her relatives to hunt down Kel, she would have expected her to choose Jasson instead.

He frowned slightly. “I was going for a walk, but I told her I’d send you her way if I saw you. They’re over in the garden by the east wing.”

“Thank you,” said Kel, taking a step in that direction.

Jonathan moved as if to follow her. “My sister’s very taken with that fan,” he remarked. “She told me she wants one of her own. I can understand why — they’re very pretty.”

Did he mean to escort her there? “They’re weapons, Your Highness.”

He blinked. “What?”

“The shukusen. Haven’t you ever looked closely at Shinkokami’s fan? The ribs are razor-sharp steel at the ends. Ladies carry them for protection when they don’t want to complicate things by openly carrying a weapon.”

He studied her face for a moment, frowning again. “Are you annoyed with me for some reason? You used to call me Jonathan.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied, a little annoyed with herself for having been too obvious about it. She didn’t want to interfere with a royal marriage any more than she already had, and potentially ruin all of her parents’ hard work. She smiled blandly. “Would you like to join us, Jonathan?”

He shook his head. “I’m supposed to be meeting Father in fifteen minutes to learn more secrets of governance, so I’d better not. Besides, Jess usually objects to me intruding on what she calls her sister time.”

Kel nodded. “Have a good lesson,” she said, and Jonathan nodded a dismissal to her.

Let Jessamine get her own shukusen, then, she thought, as she walked away. Let Jonathan admire it, let him ask to hold it, and let him feel the weight of the steel under the bright silk. With any luck, that would help him begin to see things from Shinkokami’s perspective.

The first snowflakes of the season began to drift down as the progress was riding into Port Caynn. Soft and fat, they melted as soon as they touched the cold earth, barely coating the grass alongside the road. After about half an hour, they gave way to a cold, steady drizzle. They seemed like less of a harbinger of winter than the bitter wind blowing in from the ocean, which made Kel long for the palace baths and the big fireplace in her knight-master’s sitting room in Corus.

Lord Alexander had been in a gloom since Fief Nenan, where Lord Thom had left the progress, riding on ahead with a knight escort so he could be back at the palace before he was scheduled to teach the pages magic that year. Sir Raoul had left nearly two weeks earlier, when a large group of spidrens had been sighted outside of Blue Harbor; he and the other knights who had ridden off to defend the threatened villages would make their own way back to Corus before Midwinter.

The absence of his friends, in combination with the dreary weather, resulted in him intensifying her training regimen when they reached the governor’s palace. They were jogging along the curtain wall around dawn, on their third morning in Port Caynn, when it began to snow properly.

“Walk,” said Lord Alexander, when it became clear that the snow wasn’t going to let up any time soon. “We don’t want to lose our footing.”

She slowed to a walk, shivering at that thought. They descended to the courtyard and finished their run there, as the snow gathered on the frozen mud underfoot, and then they went inside for breakfast.

A port city drew visitors from all over the world: that evening, there was going to be an exhibition of Copper Isles fire dancers. Without anything scheduled before then, some of Kel’s friends were planning to go into the city for the day, and Lord Alexander had said she could go with them if they got in a few good sword bouts first.

When she emerged from her bedroom, practice sword in hand, she found her knight-master standing beside the sitting room fireplace, frowning at a letter in his hand. Hearing her footsteps, he glanced up. “We’re going to Corus.”

She frowned, confused. “Right now, sir?” The Grand Progress wasn’t scheduled to leave Port Caynn until the next morning, and she had been looking forward to exploring the city and watching the fire dancing.

Nodding, Lord Alexander handed her the paper. “It seems they’ve found the man who paid those rogues to kidnap your maid back in April. The trial’s already started. Start packing, and I’ll go inform the king.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title, of course, is taken from something Yuki says to Neal in _Squire_ : "Beware the women of the warrior class, for all they touch is both decorative and deadly." Presumably he interrupts their game at Fief Mindelan, and Kel gets to explain what a shukusen is to two idiots in one morning.
> 
> A few other lines are borrowed from the first three Kel books: some dialogue from _Page_ and _Squire_ , and the troubling anecdote about Kel's sisters-in-law calling her a cow behind her back from the beginning of _First Test_. Also, per the character list in the backs of my copies of those books, Tilaine of Teresian is Anders’s wife. Per the Tamora Pierce wiki, she's Inness’s wife, and Anders is married to Vorinna of Richcaffery. I've decided to go with the books on this one.


	11. Satisfaction

Hands, iron-strong, gripped her shoulders, dragging Kel back down onto the bench. “Don’t keep fighting a battle you have no hope of winning,” Lord Alexander hissed into her ear. “Believe me, Turomot won’t bend.”

“It’s like me giving you my wages,” Lalasa told her quietly. “I’ve told you most nobles keep nearly all of what their servants earn — it’s their right.”

Kel bowed her head, deliberately not looking up at the Lord Magistrate, his clerk, or the Master Advocate Joren’s family had bought with their gold. Nor Sir Paxton across the aisle, nor the empty chairs on the dais reserved for the king and queen, reminders of who had dominion here, even in their absence. Breathing slowly in and out, she thought of stone — cold, clear lakes — ice. It wasn’t working.

What manner of trial, she wondered, did the king and queen decide to show up for? Even if they weren’t still on the road, they probably wouldn’t be here if Joren had paid to have her kidnapped instead of Lalasa. If he’d paid to have one of her parents kidnapped, though — maybe. Treason — certainly. She couldn’t imagine the king had failed to make an appearance at Yolane of Dunlath’s trial.

He may have had the outer staircase of Balor’s Needle fixed in a hurry, but he hadn’t done it for Lalasa. Nobody in this crowded courtroom was really here for Lalasa’s sake, save for Kel, Tian, and Gower.

“You do have rights,” said Lord Alexander, and Kel glanced up at him, frowning. He met her eyes calmly, raising his brows, and then she understood his meaning.

“My lady,” said Lalasa, “ _please_ don’t make enemies here because of me.”

It had seemed so obvious the night before, when Lalasa had told her that Sir Paxton of Nond was in attendance every preceding day of the trial. The pretense that Joren had changed had never fooled her, not after she’d seen how he treated Gavain. She had nearly laughed when she’d figured it out. And then the revelation had finished sinking in, and her thoughts had taken a darker turn.

She wanted Joren to pay her in blood. She’d drifted off to sleep that night thinking about it, and now those images returned vividly to her. The law might have failed Lalasa here, but she wouldn’t. She nodded slowly, and her knight-master smiled.

The heavy crack of granite against bronze, as Duke Turomot ended the trial. Feeling a bit like a puppet, Kel rose with everyone else in attendance. A hand lighted on her shoulder, and she turned to find her sister Adalia smiling sympathetically at her. “I’m sorry, dear. I know you’d hoped for a different outcome.”

Beside her stood her husband Merovec of Nond, Tian and Gower, and Lord Wyldon. Kel’s parents had remained with the progress; though she would have liked having them at the trial, she knew she’d see them again within a day or so. “At least I tried,” she said, attempting a smile in return.

“I think we can be satisfied that some measure of justice was done,” said Lord Wyldon, meeting her eyes evenly. “I would have hoped for better, under the circumstances, but — I have seen worse.”

She tried not to scowl at him. “A fine isn’t justice, my lord. Lalasa’s life is worth more than that.”

“I don’t disagree. But I do agree with your knight-master that challenging His Grace in his own courtroom is unwise.”

He had glanced across the aisle as he said it; following his gaze, Kel saw that Lord Alexander had slipped away. He stood where Sir Paxton had during the trial, talking quietly with Ebroin of Genlith, Joren’s father’s steward.

After a moment, he returned to Kel’s side, his eyes bright. “I know where we’re likely to find Joren,” he told her quietly. “If you want to issue a challenge, we should go now, before he has the chance to escape.”

And we should get out of Duke Turomot’s sight before he suffers an apoplexy, thought Kel. She glanced at Lord Wyldon, who nodded. “It _is_ your right as a noble,” he said, as calmly as when he had told Joren, in the midst of the trial, that Kel had earned her right to train as a knight, more than any of the boys had.

It would have killed him to lie, she thought, gazing back at him. It meant something, to have heard him say that to Joren — but it wasn’t enough.

“Don’t do anything rash,” said Adalia, frowning at them. “You know what Mama would say. Don’t let anger cloud your judgment.”

That time Kel managed a smile that looked more like a smile than not. “I won’t, Adie, don’t worry.”

They found Joren in his knight-master’s sitting room in the palace, looking bored while Sir Paxton gave him a stern lecture. The knight stopped abruptly when he saw Kel and Lord Alexander, standing there beside the door his manservant had just opened for them.

Joren rolled his eyes. “Let’s just get this over with. Go ahead and slap me with a glove, or whatever girlish frippery you two have on you. I’m tired of all this.”

Sir Paxton was gazing bleakly at Lord Alexander. “Don’t make it a duel to the death, please. I’d prefer to keep him alive.”

“Would you really?” murmured Lord Alexander. “Why?”

Kel ignored them. She kept her eyes trained on Joren’s face and her thoughts on her sister’s advice. It wouldn’t do if she lost her temper now. She tamped it down, managing to keep her voice calm.

“What you did was wrong, and you know it. You also knew that you couldn’t be charged with more than a fine for it under the law. You went after Lalasa because she’s a commoner, which makes her life worth less than mine under that law. But I am a noble, and I want satisfaction from you.” She felt her heart beating a little faster with every word, adrenaline fizzing in her veins.

“Fine,” said Joren, tossing away the word like a verbal shrug. “Let’s do it now, and not waste any more time with this. We can meet at the first fencing gallery in half an hour.”

That gave Kel just enough time to get changed and make sure she had everything she needed. “Let Joren tire himself out,” said Lord Alexander, while she looked over her gear. “He looks like the type who wants to have a conversation with his opponent. Ignore it. Use the beginning of the duel to figure out what he likes to do when he fights, and then use it against him.”

Fifteen minutes later, she waited for Joren in the largest of the indoor courts, wearing her sword belt, fencing gloves, and a padded jacket. Kel had at least a few minutes of silence before the others arrived; Lord Alexander had left her to find a neutral party. She gazed out across the gallery toward the rows of empty benches lining the opposite wall. The room was silent and brightly lit by lamps set in sconces along the walls. Far below ground level, it was bitterly cold here in winter. She shut her eyes for a few seconds, drawing the stillness into herself, and then began to warm up.

She was sinking into a low lunge when her knight-master appeared with Prince Jonathan. Kel stared for a moment, surprised and then annoyed by his presence. The progress must have just returned to the palace, because the prince was still wearing breeches speckled with mud. Jonathan looked surprisingly well-rested to her eyes, despite months on the road. No doubt he slept the sleep of a man with very little self-awareness.

“I asked him to judge,” Lord Alexander explained.

Jonathan raised an eyebrow at Kel. “He says you’re going to duel the golden boy of Stone Mountain.”

She nodded, trying to compose herself. “That’s right.”

“I should have brought roasted chestnuts or something.” He went to sit down on one of the benches, to wait for Joren and Sir Paxton to arrive. Her knight-master leaned against the wall, beyond the edge of the court, just as she waited for him when he competed in tournaments. Shiro had insisted on following her down to the gallery; he sat beside Lord Alexander, his tail thumping against the flagstones. She smiled at him, cheered by his presence.

Finally Joren made his entrance. He raised an eyebrow at Prince Jonathan, but thankfully kept his opinions about their judge to himself. Kel was tired of listening to him talk. Rolling his eyes again, he drew his sword and joined her in the center of the floor.

Jonathan frowned at him. “Did you want to warm up?”

“I’m warm enough,” he drawled. “Let’s just get this over with.”

A flicker of doubt passed over Jonathan’s face, but he didn’t argue. “You’ll fight to first blood,” he said, his voice ringing out through the cold room, “unless anyone has any strong objections to that. I’d prefer it if you didn’t object, though — I don’t want to see either of you die today.” He waited a moment, to see if there was a response, and then raised his hands. “Are you both prepared?”

They bowed to him, and then saluted him with their swords to signify they were. Kel stepped into position opposite Joren, keeping her eyes on his torso as she bowed to him. Unless he was a better swordsman than she remembered, any movement there would betray an impending attack.

“Cross your weapons,” said the prince, after they had saluted each other. “Do honor to the laws of chivalry and to the customs of your land. Guard.”

Kel struck first. She wasn’t quite fast enough. Joren parried her attack and offered one of his own, which she blocked easily. She fell back, watching him. He was good, but he didn’t have her knight-master’s preternatural speed.

He feinted, and she stepped out of his way rather than swing at a target that wouldn’t be there. It had been an obvious feint; he hadn’t put enough power behind the strike to make it believable. Kel circled him, remembering Lord Alexander’s advice about letting Joren tire himself out. He attacked again, his tensing muscles betraying that it would be a low strike, and she blocked him. He had a habit of pressing back when she parried, trying to take her blade with strength alone. She disengaged instead of responding in kind, and fell back.

“Why keep this up?” Joren asked her, slightly breathless. “We’d have gotten rid of you years ago, if not for royal favor.”

Kel ignored him, knowing she could outlast him. Soon his anger would make him careless, and then she’d have him. Kel parried another strike and then twisted her blade around his, aiming for his collarbone.

The point of her sword snagged on his jacket, but he dodged her, knocking her blade away with his. She followed, pressing him back. “They should have made you repeat the four years,” he said. “You would have gone home then. No one would have stayed.” He had said something of the kind during the trial, she recalled. If he was repeating himself, perhaps he was starting to get tired.

Joren lunged for her. She blocked him again easily, sliding her blade away and whipping it up toward his throat. He jumped back, mouth twisting in rage. She struck again. He parried, stepped aside, and then lunged in again, locking his sword with hers. Clenching his jaw, he tried to force her down to the floor.

Not as fast as her knight-master, she thought, and not as strong either. She met Joren’s strength with hers, pushing him back. He went, glowering at her as he fell back into guard position. She could see sweat beading on his forehead.

Kel lunged in again. He parried and then slid his blade away from hers, leaving his chest open for an instant as he attacked her flank. It was enough. She knocked his blade aside and struck, the point of her sword biting through his padded jacket. She stepped back, watching blood begin to soak through the undyed cloth. Joren was staring at her, his eyes wide.

“First blood,” Prince Jonathan announced. “Sir Paxton, you’d better get your squire to a healer as soon as he’s apologized to Keladry.” She glanced up at him; he looked as though he were trying to hide a smile.

Sir Paxton hurried over to them. He offered his arm to Joren, who stumbled away from him with a snarl. “This proves nothing,” he told Kel, his face pale.

Cold fury rose in her again. She let it wash over her and away, like seawater. “That doesn’t sound like what you’re supposed to say, Joren.”

His wound was shallow, by her judgment, but it hadn’t stopped bleeding. Crimson blossomed over the front of his jacket as Joren glared up at her, hate in his blue eyes. “I beg your pardon for the offense I gave in my actions toward your maidservant,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Must I apologize to her as well?”

“No, that’s sufficient.” A conversation with him would most likely only upset Lalasa further, doing more harm than good. Kel knew she’d never get a real apology out of him anyway. “I got what I wanted out of you.”

Kel waited until he was gone to wipe the blood off her sword. While she was cleaning the blade, Lord Alexander sauntered over to her, his eyes bright in the cold light of the gallery. “Well fought, squire. Very well fought.”

She smiled at him. His approval was worth far more than Joren’s apology could ever be. “Thank you, sir,” she said, as Shiro sniffed at her, checking to make sure she was all right.

Jonathan strode over to them, grinning. “The look on his face when you won! Oh, I’m so glad I got to see it. You know, I’ve never liked him much.”

Kel gazed at him, trying not to let her confusion show on her face. “Thank you for judging, Your Highness,” she replied, after a moment.

“Any time.” He glanced toward the door, and then knelt briefly to scratch Shiro behind his ears. “Well, I suppose I should go get ready for the banquet tonight. I could use a bath.”

“When did you get back?”

“Scarcely an hour ago. It took forever to get through the palace gates. Well fought, Kel,” he added, on his way to the door. “I’ll see you both later tonight.”

When he was gone, she glanced over at Lord Alexander. “I thought he’d have the sense to remain impartial,” he said, “at least for the duration of the duel. I’m glad he didn’t disappoint me.”

“He doesn’t think women should be warriors,” she replied, wondering whether that had been part of his aim: to demonstrate to Jonathan that Kel, at least, could fight well.

Lord Alexander frowned consideringly. “I think he puts women into different categories. But in general, you’re right. Which could prove beneficial if Joren or Sir Paxton decided to ask him his views on the subject. Harder to accuse Jon of bias.”

“Joren said something about royal favor, during the fight.”

He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Not surprising, really. His family’s been clashing with Roger for years. No doubt that’s how Joren explains a lot of things he doesn’t like.”

She nodded, remembering what Gavain had told her about the circumstances leading up to Joren’s father’s illness a few years back. A thorn in the king’s side, he had said, constantly blocking every law Roger favored.

“Freezing in here,” Lord Alexander remarked. “Well, did you work up an appetite?”

She had, she realized suddenly. The adrenaline had died down, leaving ravenous hunger in its wake. “Yessir.”

“Personally, I’ve had enough banquets to last me a decade,” he confided in her. “Let me take you into the city instead. We’ll have dinner at an eating-house, and be back in time for the party tonight.” His face broke into a real smile at last. “I am so proud of you.”

Something was bothering her. Halfway through dinner, Kel realized what it was. She set her knife down, turning the words over in her head before she spoke. “My lord,” she began, “I’m not sure I was right to challenge Joren.”

Lord Alexander glanced up, frowning. “Of course you were. He kidnapped your maid.”

“And noble privilege let him get away with that,” she replied. “The same noble privilege that allowed me to challenge him as I did. I may have used my privilege for good, but I still used it.”

She wasn’t explaining herself very well, she thought, seeing the deepening look of confusion on his face. “I meant what I said to Duke Turomot. I’m glad I spoke up in the courtroom, even if it didn’t do anything. I wish that I’d said more. That law is plain wrong, and I don’t think I protested it by exercising my noble privilege.”

He rested his chin on his hand, studying her face through narrowed eyes. “Trial by combat is a time-honored tradition,” he pointed out. “You won your duel with Joren, which means the gods thought you were in the right.” He took a sip of his ale. “Or at least, that’s what people will say when word gets around that you beat him soundly. The truth is, Kel, you won because you were better than him.”

When word gets around? Did he think Jonathan was going to tell his friends all about the duel? She wasn’t so sure.

“Even so,” she continued, “I don’t think it was the best way to protest a law that says that some people’s lives are worth more than other people’s. I may have discouraged Joren from doing something like that again, but I doubt it. I certainly haven’t discouraged anyone else from taking advantage of that law. And as long as it remains on the books, someone is going to take advantage of it sooner or later.”

Shrugging, Lord Alexander returned to his meal. “You’re being too hard on yourself again,” he said, through a mouthful of roasted chicken. “Duke Turomot wasn’t going to bend, so issuing a challenge to Joren was the only recourse you had.”

Was that true? She took a sip of her mulled cider, considering.

“ _I_ think your Lalasa will be pleased, when you tell her that you beat him.” Lord Alexander met her gaze with eyes like dark mirrors. “He was good, Kel. Not the best, but two years older than you and a very good swordsman. And he was no match for you. You should be very proud.”

They were talking at cross purposes, which didn’t really surprise her. Kel knew what most of her peers thought of commoners, what most of her friends thought of them; she knew that her respect for common blood was a rarity in her world. Of course her knight-master would be more focused on her skill with a sword than on the circumstances that had led to her duel with Joren.

“Is there anything I should work on?” she asked him. “Anything that you noticed during the fight, where I could improve?” Perhaps in the future she could get him to see things from her perspective, but it clearly wasn’t going to happen in one night.

Lord Alexander leaned back in his chair, looking thoughtful. “Well, now that you mention it . . .”

The moment she walked into the serving room later that night, someone called out her name. “Kel!”

That was Owen’s voice. She turned and saw him barreling toward her, a splash of wine over one of his shirtsleeves. Laughing, she braced for impact. “Kel!” he cried again, throwing his arms around her. “You’re back! There’s someone you need to meet!”

She hugged him fiercely. “Who? You’ve ruined your shirt.”

“He nearly dropped the jug when he saw you,” said a girl’s voice.

Kel looked up, startled. An olive-skinned girl of about ten or eleven stood behind Owen, smiling shyly at her. She wore the red-and-gold uniform of a page, and wore her brown curls in a thick braid hanging past her shoulders. Kel tried not to stare at the braid. Didn’t the boys pull her hair? They would certainly have pulled Kel’s hair, if she hadn’t cropped it.

It was nice to think that they didn’t, that they’d moved past that. She smiled back at the girl. “Hello. It’s very nice to meet you.”

“This is Fianola,” Owen told her. “She’s real good with a longbow. I’m sponsoring her.”

A hand reached past her and tousled his hair. “You’re blocking the doorway, you little barbarian,” said Merric, before clapping Kel on the back. “Kel, you missed the fire dancers.”

“I wish I hadn’t!” she replied, turning to smile at him. “How was the city?”

Owen released her and began to scrub at the stain on his shirt with the hem of his tunic. “You’re making it worse,” murmured Fianola.

“It was _cold_ ,” said Merric. “My ears just about froze and fell off.”

“We heard you fought Joren to the death and won,” said Seaver, who had followed on his heels.

“You heard wrong,” she replied, amused and a little annoyed that the story of the duel had traveled so far already, and changed so much along the way. “We fought to first blood.”

“Pity,” said Merric.

“Who told you?”

“Jasson,” replied Seaver. “He said his cousin told him all about the duel.”

Kel raised her eyebrows. “Prince Jonathan?”

The other squires crowded into the room, jostling the pages still waiting to return jugs and dishes from the banquet. “Better for you to humiliate Joren than for Jon to punch him,” said a voice from somewhere behind her. Turning around again, Kel saw Gavain half-concealed by one of the fourth-year pages. He smiled rather grimly at her.

It was hard to tell, from his expression, whether his brother had found about Joren bullying him. “That wouldn’t be politically savvy of Jonathan at all,” she agreed.

“Not at all. And one would hope he’d learned something during that traveling courtly drama you’re all living. How _is_ the progress, anyway?”

“Not as exciting as it sounds,” she replied.

He smiled again, more warmly this time. “No, they never are.”

“Did you knock Joren’s sword out of his hands?” asked Merric, returning to the previous topic at hand.

“No, I didn’t,” she replied, amused.

Neal had arrived in time to overhear that. “But you did stab him,” he said cheerfully. “How hard, exactly?”

“Some people are very bloodthirsty,” she retorted. “I broke the skin, that’s all. To be honest, I’m not sure I did anything more than annoy him. He only had to pay a _fine_ after what he did to Lalasa, and that’s small change to him.” Her voice sounded sharper to her ears than she’d meant it to; she could feel anger bubbling up again, and tried to tamp it down.

As if on cue, Joren strode into the room, his back rigid and his head held high. He wore his dress uniform, linen and silk velvet in shades of yellow and brown that always made him look sickly. He looked, perhaps, a little paler than usual, but otherwise fully recovered. At the sight of him, Kel saw some of the other boys’ eyes light up, as if they’d scented blood in the water. Joren didn’t even glance at them. He accepted his tray of drinks in silence, and turned to leave.

“Joren,” hissed Merric, as he passed him. “How does Kel’s sword taste?”

He was too far away for Kel to kick him. She tried to compose herself as Joren turned slowly, his eyes glinting like ice in the lamplight. “ _Excuse_ me?”

Merric grinned at him. “You heard me.”

From the look on Joren’s face, he was fully prepared to sacrifice his tray of drinks for the chance to punch Merric in the face. Before he could drop his tray, though, Master Oakbridge swept into the room. “You pages, clear out,” he said. “Squires, to your positions. We must have no mistakes tonight, do you all understand? The crown prince takes his Ordeal in two weeks, and I want to see nothing that will upset Their Majesties before that momentous occasion.”

Kel accepted her own tray of drinks with a sigh. She was not looking forward to seeing Joren spill wine all over Merric right in front of the king.

With Master Oakbridge there to restore order, she and Merric were separated by a line of pages hurrying out of the room, and then jostled into their own line of squires. He was somewhere ahead of her, quickly lost among the crowds as they streamed into the ballroom. She was fairly certain Joren was a few squires behind her; she didn’t like having him at her back. Gritting her teeth, Kel waded into the festivities, keeping an eye out for both of them.

Before she saw either Merric or Joren again, she happened upon her knight-master, standing near the door leading into the banquet hall and talking with Martin of Meron, the prime minister, and his wife, Lady Roxanne. Lord Alexander wore the dark red tunic she had picked out for him and a rather bleak expression on his face as he stared off into the middle distance.

“— can’t understand why they won’t agree to move it to Persopolis,” Lord Martin was saying as Kel approached them with her tray of drinks. “I don’t intend to shut the school down. They’ve certainly been in existence for long enough — decades, apparently. I only want to ensure they’re following regulations.”

“I’m given to understand that Bazhir schools are somewhat different from Tortallan temple schools,” said Lord Alexander, reaching for a cup of mulled wine. “They may not want to follow Tortallan regulations.”

“They may be thinking of your father,” said Lady Roxanne to her husband, taking a cup of wine for each of them. “He used to forbid the residents of Persopolis from speaking Bazhir within the walls of the city,” she explained to Lord Alexander.

“They haven’t dealt with him in decades,” complained Lord Martin. “They should know by now that I won’t punish them for minor infractions.”

“Minor infractions like speaking Bazhir?” said Lord Alexander, before downing about half his cup of wine in one gulp. “There may be some magical reason why they prefer to keep their school out in the desert. They’re training mages, after all.”

“Which is why I want to ensure there’s some oversight,” Lord Martin replied. “I won’t have them doing whatever they want.” As Kel walked away, she heard him add, “You know, I usually don’t even think of you as a Bazhir.” She wondered whether he thought it was a compliment.

A few minutes later, she spotted Merric again, near a small crowd of mages. “You didn’t have to say anything to Joren,” she pointed out, when she caught up with him.

“True.” He sounded cheerful enough, but his eyes kept darting nervously around. “Do you see him anywhere?”

She glanced around. “No. I think he was behind me when we walked into the ballroom. He’s probably somewhere over by the royal family, waiting to trip you when you pass by.”

“Probably,” he said, with a shrug. “I was tired of looking at his smug face, after what he did. Lalasa never hurt anybody.”

Kel sighed. “No, she didn’t.”

She kept an eye out for Joren as she circled the room with her tray. It was all of a piece, really: Merric sniping with Joren, her challenging Joren to a duel. Small, pitched battles among the nobility, that did nothing to help the disadvantaged. Even Lord Martin’s desire to exercise more control over a Bazhir school that had, from the sound of it, been operating peacefully in the desert for years, unnoticed by most Tortallans, was in keeping with that same noble privilege.

As long as that law remained on the books, it would be a danger to people like Lalasa. No doubt there were other laws like it, written by people like Joren who treated commoners as property rather than people. Enforced by people like Duke Turomot, who had more respect for the law as an abstract thing than for the people it was meant to protect. The more she thought about it, the angrier it made her.

She didn’t have to wait long before Joren got his revenge. Less than an hour after their ballroom service began, Kel was in the middle of offering drinks to a group of the queen’s ladies, when out of the corner of her eye, she saw Joren appear suddenly behind Merric. The king stood a few yards away, talking with the Carthaki ambassador beside one of the ballroom’s vast fireplaces.

Joren dodged a young Yamani mage wearing a bronze kimono under his red robes, and then pretended to stumble, jostling his tray. Before Kel could raise the alarm, a cup turned over, splashing wine over the back of Merric’s tunic. Merric stopped short, startled.

“Oh dear,” said one of the queen’s ladies.

The Scanran border, he thought, would be quiet this time of year. Freezing and miserable, true, but quiet. The desert would probably be less quiet, though at least it would be warmer.

It hadn’t fully sunk in, until Alex found himself standing in a corner of the main palace ballroom, wearing silk velvet and clutching a cup of mulled wine, how thoroughly sick of parties and dancing he was. The remainder of the Grand Progress seemed to stretch out bleakly before him, meandering southward into the coming months. No rest for him, after the usual festivities of Midwinter finally drew to a close. After this, they were bound for Hill Country, and then the desert, and then the southern coast.

He looked around in vain for someone to talk to besides Lord Martin, amidst the glittering nobility and garlands of ivy and winter flowers. Roger stood beside one of the great fireplaces across the room, surrounded by a dense knot of courtiers and talking animatedly with a young Yamani mage, one of the princess’s entourage. Not far away —

— a shock of red hair, bright against green brocade and gold. Thom seemed to draw the light to him; it must have been a trick of the firelight. He stood at the edge of the crowd around Roger, dressed in his court finery and having a conversation with Harailt of Aili. Alex watched him scowl into his wine cup, glance with narrowed eyes toward the king, and then return his attention, a little sullenly, to Harailt.

Someone else, then, as Thom was clearly busy. Alex forced himself to look away, scanning the crowds for Gary. There he was — on the dance floor, with his wife. Alex continued to look around, not sure whether Raoul had made it back to the palace yet —

— and found him standing before one of the nearer fireplaces, talking with Lady Haname. Feeling an odd pang of loneliness, Alex watched as Raoul spread his hands wide, perhaps illustrating the size of one of the spidrens he had killed, and she raised her fan to hide a smile. She said something, Raoul threw his head back with a laugh, and Alex, feeling the familiar ache of having been left out of something, decided not to join them. So much for old bachelors defending one another from the indignities of courtship rituals.

“Jealous?” said a voice.

Alex turned, and found Thom standing beside him. “How did you get over here?”

Thom’s eyes widened, with the kind of faux innocence he might have used if someone had accused him of robbing the crown’s treasury. “I _walked_ , like an ordinary person. Vanishing and reappearing suddenly upsets the more sensitive courtiers. Were you really too busy mooning over that giant to notice me sneaking up on you?”

Alex frowned. “Mooning over _Raoul_?”

“Well, you certainly weren’t gazing longingly at _her_.” It came out a little barbed, on the sharper side of teasing, and then his voice softened to a gloomy sort of nonchalance. “Then again, maybe I’m wrong.”

Alex shrugged, and Thom regarded him in silence for a moment. “Grumpy tonight, aren’t you? Not that I blame you. Look at that crowd,” he went on, nodding toward Roger. “I can think of ten things I’d rather being doing right now, besides standing around and waiting for him to notice me.”

“He certainly has a lot to say to that mage.”

Thom snorted. “Oh yes, Lord Haruto,” he said, rather bitterly. “Only twenty-two, and already one of the emperor’s court mages. Evidently he passed the Yamani exams for Mastery last year.”

“You were younger, when you passed yours.”

“True, but not by much.” He fell silent again, gazing moodily over at the king and his companion. “Look at him, he’s barely more than a child.”

Alex studied his face, taking in the hard glint of his violet eyes, the unhappy twist of his mouth. “So were you.” For the first time in years, he recalled Thom’s first few weeks at the palace. At eighteen years old, he had worn his brand new mage robes like armor and flirted shamelessly with Roger. Alex had hated him, at first.

Thom turned back to him, his eyes softening a little. “Yes, we were.”

“He’ll go back to the Yamani Islands after the wedding.”

A sharp exhale, almost like a laugh. “Lucky him.” He took a sip of his mulled wine, and then winced slightly. Ran his tongue over his lower lip, leaving it gleaming in the lamplight, and said, “A little too heavy on the cinnamon.”

“Liquid gold,” said Alex, taking a sip from his own cup. “Oh yes, I see what you mean. Roger showing off again.”

Thom took another, longer drink. “It’s distasteful. Oh, look at me, I’m the king, see how many spices I can import.”

“Just throwing them away.”

“You look nice,” said Thom suddenly, gazing at him sidelong. His eyes lingered on Alex’s dark red tunic. “A little reminiscent of blood, but nice. I hear your squire won a duel today.”

Alex smiled. “She beat Joren of Stone Mountain. Barely broke a sweat.”

“Look at you, the proud father.” He was silent for a moment again, still gazing at him; the silence between them felt unusually charged. Then he looked away, back toward the crowd surrounding Roger, and groaned. “We missed our chance. Lord Martin’s caught hold of him.”

“Surely Roger will escape him soon,” said Alex, covering a yawn with his hand.

“Stop that, you’re making me tired. I should have accosted him on his way out of the banquet, so I could be safely in my rooms by now, reading.”

“You should have. You didn’t, though.”

“More fool me. Where were you, anyway? You certainly weren’t at the banquet.”

Alex blinked at him, surprised by how much that had sounded like an accusation. Evidently Thom had been looking for him. “I took my squire to dinner in the city.”

“Ah,” said Thom, his eyes glittering in the lamplight. “Rewarding her for making someone bleed. How very like you.” Then he glanced back toward the king, who was still in conversation with Martin of Meron, and sighed. “Perhaps I’m getting too old to be competing with younger mages all the time. You might as well put me out to pasture now.”

“You’re thirty-seven.”

Thom sighed again, throwing his head back dramatically this time. “Don’t _remind_ me.”

All of a sudden, something absurd yet entirely plausible occurred to Alex. “Is that why you used that flashy spell, when the hurroks attacked this summer? You were showing off for Lord Haruto? He wasn’t even at the front of the progress.”

“He was near enough to see it,” Thom retorted. “The other Yamani mages saw it, too. I had to prove my worth to them at _some_ point.”

“You nearly keeled over in the saddle.”

He shrugged. “You’re one to talk. As though you’re not constantly competing with other knights, knocking each other about with lances and whatnot.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

Because it’s me, thought Alex. “What would you be reading, if you weren’t here right now?” he asked instead.

“Delighted you asked,” said Thom, taking another sip of wine. “I’ve been reading about boats lately.”

“Boats?”

“The royal family,” he began, gesturing expansively with his free hand, “used to have these magnificent boats they used for all sorts of important business, two or three centuries ago. Peregrine ships, they called them, because they could travel so fast. Unfortunately some of the relevant spells were lost at some point during the Mages’ Rebellion or the period of civil war that followed. I recently located a manuscript that may allow me to reconstruct them.”

Alex frowned slightly. “This isn’t at all related to the class you’re teaching, is it?”

“No, they’re still struggling to learn how to cast bright lights.” Another weary sigh; another sip of wine. “I’m wasted on the first-years, truly. You’re so lucky not to have to deal with the pages. Would you like to go for a walk?”

“Where?” It was bitterly cold outside; Alex pictured them wandering through the new-fallen snow, among the ornamental hedges, and shivered involuntarily.

“Oh, one of the libraries, maybe. The portrait gallery. I’m not asking you to run away with me to Ekallatum this time,” he added, with a self-deprecating smile.

That seemed — manageable, as well as laden with meaning somehow. The very air seemed to crackle, as though lightning were near. Alex glanced back toward Roger, who was talking with Duke Gareth now. “All right.”

Skirting the edges of the crowd, they made their way to a side door and slipped out into the empty corridor. The nearest library was just a few doors down, past the point where the sounds of the party faded to a distant murmur.

It was a small room, as empty as the corridor, lit by the fire crackling in the hearth and a few mage-lamps dimmed as if to encourage them to go to bed. Perhaps it was later than he’d realized. The walls were lined with bookshelves, leaving space for a pair of armchairs beside the fire and a writing desk near the narrow window. As Alex pulled the door quietly shut behind them, Thom began to survey the bookshelves, a look of faint disgust upon his face. “I should have known there’d be nothing good in here. It’s too small for that, and too close to the ballroom. Oh — this might interest you.”

Curious, Alex joined him beside the shelves, where Thom was leafing through a thick leather-bound book. “It’s all about the mathematical underpinnings of nature,” he explained as he handed it to him, open to what looked like a close-up illustration of the head of a sunflower. “A bit dry, but not overly theoretical, I should think.”

His gift bestowed, he knelt beside the lowest shelf, frowning appraisingly at the titles there. “Gods, how many books about etiquette can there possibly _be_ . . .”

Alex flipped ahead a few pages to a drawing of a pair of fiddlehead ferns. On the opposite page, there was a partial explanation of their presence in the book: a passage about the repetition of patterns in nature, and how certain plants contained within them smaller yet perfect copies of themselves as a whole, an oddly beautiful idea. And Thom had given him this, instead of a history of battles or something similar.

“Great Mithros,” breathed Thom, rising slowly to his feet. Alex glanced up, and saw him staring down at a small, ancient book. “There’s something interesting here after all.”

“What is it?”

“An early work by Palawynn the Windwaker,” he replied. “ _Very_ hard to find. I can’t begin to guess what it’s doing here.” His eyes narrowed as he began to leaf through it. “This looks like a third century copy, actually. Even so . . . I wonder if Roger planted it here to keep me from straying too far from his parties.”

Alex snorted at that thought.

“Joke’s on him,” said Thom, slipping the book into the pocket of his robe. “This is about to disappear into my workroom for the next few months.”

“How did you know I liked mathematics?”

Thom shrugged. “Roger mentioned it years ago, I think — I have a vague memory of him once saying you had more of a head for numbers than he did. I think that’s when I realized you were the same boy who was always doing my sister’s mathematics homework.”

Alex stared at him, surprised and oddly touched. “I didn’t know she told you about that.” And he wouldn’t have expected him to have remembered, all these years later.

Thom smiled, equal parts fondness and exhaustion. “I did tell you we wrote to each other constantly, growing up. She always wrote pages and pages about her friends,” he went on, his smile turning a little sour. “You — Sir Gareth — the prince. That giant you were pining after in the ballroom. She told me about all the fun you were having, while I was trapped in a convent with a couple of priggish future priests and a pack of frilly girls who kept teasing me.”

Alex frowned. “They send you to the convent first?” Roger hadn’t mentioned that part of his education.

He nodded. “For a couple of years, before handing you over to the Mithran priests. The priestesses teach you the basics of magic, and something of etiquette and reading and writing, so you’re reasonably civilized by the time you go to live with the priests. At least you get to keep your hair then. The Mithrans shave your head as soon as you walk in the door.”

“Poor lads,” said Alex, watching the firelight play over his red hair, and understanding for the first time why Thom wore it so long, and kept curling and fussing with it before parties. He had the sudden urge to run his fingers through it. He set his book down on top of the shelf and clasped his hands behind his back.

“It was horrifying. My head is all the wrong shape for that. If I start losing my hair, it’s all going to be over for me.”

“You’d look fine.”

“I would _not_. If I were bald, you’d despise me.”

Alex shook his head, felt himself smiling helplessly. “You’re being _ridiculous_.”

His eyes were bright and very wide. “No, I’m not. I’m getting old and one day I’ll be hideous to you.”

The air had grown charged again; that _to you_ struck Alex all at once, through the fading haze of wine. He felt his face starting to grow hot. It was nearly Midwinter; he was pale enough for a blush to show even in dim lighting. So much for self-control, he thought, and for not throwing his life into turmoil.

“Oh dear,” said Thom, frowning suddenly. “I haven’t bewitched you, have I?” He blinked, and Alex noticed that his eyelashes had a hint of red in them. “Better?”

Nothing had changed: neither the lightning crackle in the air nor the same charge running through his veins. “You didn’t do anything,” said Alex. He hesitated for a moment, and then stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Thom’s eyes widened again, but he didn’t move away. Gently cupping his face, Alex leaned in and kissed him.

Thom made a soft, hungry noise and slid his arms around him. His mouth was warm and soft, and still tasted of cinnamon and wine, making Alex feel dizzy. He tangled his fingers in Thom’s hair like he’d wanted to, ran his hand over Thom’s back, felt Thom’s hands tugging insistently at his tunic, drawing him closer.

After a moment, Thom pulled away, breathing hard. “I _didn’t_ bewitch you?”

His lips were full and slightly bruised. “No, you didn’t,” said Alex, leaning in to kiss him again.

“How do you know?” Thom murmured against his mouth. He held himself back a little, his shoulders tense.

With a sigh, Alex leaned his forehead against Thom’s. “Because I wanted this,” he admitted.

Thom was briefly silent, his body still tense. “Oh darling, it’s _easier_ to control someone when they want whatever you’re trying to make them do.”

He was right, Alex knew, without knowing precisely how he knew it. For a moment, he felt the ghostly sensation of pressure in his head, like the memory of a headache, but he focused his attention on Thom’s eyelashes instead, and the sensation passed. “Are you going to be difficult?” he asked.

Thom made a choked noise almost like a laugh, and shuddered against him. “ _Difficult_ ,” he repeated. “That’s hilarious, coming from you.”

“Am I difficult?”

“You’re infuriating sometimes,” said Thom fondly, and kissed him again.

After a few minutes, it occurred to Alex that they were in a public place; at any moment, someone could walk into the library and find him embracing one of the most infamous men at court. He started to pull away again, and Thom ducked his head, trailing kisses over his neck. “We’re going to get caught.”

Thom looked up, frowning at him. “You’re always so horribly practical, aren’t you?”

“I’m serious. Think of what Martin of Meron would say if he wandered in here and saw us like this.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Lord Martin can’t read.”

Alex started to laugh.

“You’re right, of course,” said Thom, with a sigh. His breath was warm against Alex’s cheek. “Any minute now, one of the literate courtiers could walk in on us, and then my reputation would be ruined.”

A lock of hair, blazing like fire in the light from the hearth, had fallen over his eyes; Alex pushed it out of the way, running his fingers through Thom’s hair again. “We should return to the party, really.”

Thom looked like he was struggling not to laugh. “Sheath your belt knife first,” he said, and Alex felt his face grow even redder. “We can’t stumble back into the ballroom all disheveled and out of breath; they’d all be gossiping about us within minutes. Besides, you don’t even want to go back.”

He was right, curse him. “We have to eventually,” he pointed out, and Thom made a dissatisfied little noise and kissed him again. “He’ll be annoyed with us if we don’t.” Another kiss. “And we can’t stay here. Come to my rooms.”

Thom pulled away, staring wide-eyed at him. “Mine are closer,” he said, after a brief pause. “We’ll have to walk past the ballroom again, but — I can make it so nobody notices us. We won’t be _invisible_ precisely, but — they won’t notice us.”

Another brief silence, filled with the crackling of the fire, the slow intake and release of breath. The sense that it would be so _nice_ to be invisible for a while, to walk through the corridors with Thom unnoticed and unaccosted. “All right,” he said. “Your rooms, then.”

Perhaps Duke Turomot wouldn’t admit that a law was unfair, but Kel had thought of someone who might. She would just have to present her case to him very well, better than she had to her knight-master over dinner, and she would have to pray he wasn’t in an awful mood after the incident with the wine.

Merric had walked out of the ballroom with an air of casual acceptance, as though he’d made peace with his fate long before the wine had been spilled. In his absence, Kel began going over her petition in her head. Thankfully, Joren didn’t try anything else that evening, and by the time the king had gone to bed and the squires had all mustered in the serving room with their trays, Master Oakbridge had been able to look at them without shouting, which Kel thought was a good sign. Perhaps this Midwinter would be a peaceful one.

By that point, she had most of her petition fixed in her mind. As soon as they were dismissed, she hurried back to her room to write it down. There was no line of light under Lord Alexander’s door when she got there, suggesting he was already asleep. She wasn’t surprised. It was late, after all, and he liked getting to bed early when he could. She shut her bedroom door so her lamp wouldn’t disturb him, and then began to write, outlining as much of her petition as she’d managed to come up with.

Despite her late bedtime, Kel rose before dawn as usual. She changed into breeches and a comfortable shirt and took down her practice glaive, to warm up with a quick pattern dance before she headed over to one of the indoor courts to practice with the Yamani ladies and her mother. Breakfast with them followed, as it often did; when she was at the palace, Shinkokami liked to breakfast with her ladies on soup, rice, fish, and vegetables pickled in the Yamani style. The meal always reminded Kel of her childhood, and in the wake of the trial and the knowledge of what she was about to do, she took comfort in that.

She got back to the Tirragen apartment while it was still dark. Her knight-master didn’t seem to be there, but that wasn’t unusual. He hadn’t said anything to her about going for a run along the palace wall to wake up, so she suspected he had gone to one of the indoor fencing galleries. Figuring that she had time for one of the drills he had taught her before he returned, she got out her practice sword, leaving her door open so he’d know where she was.

She was nearly done when Lord Alexander stumbled into the sitting room through the door leading out into the corridor. Keeping her attention on the drill, Kel brought her blade low to parry an imagined attack, swept it up in a final crescent strike, and then lowered it slowly back into guard position. After putting her sword away, she turned to face her knight-master.

He stood in the middle of the room, watching her through the doorway. His hair was rumpled, as though from sleep, and he wore the same red hose, gray shirt, and dark red tunic that he had worn the night before. When her eyes met his, he ran a hand through his hair, looking embarrassed.

“Good morning, sir,” said Kel, as though nothing were out of the ordinary. After all, it wasn’t any of her business whether he spent the night in his own bed or someone else’s.

He cleared his throat. “Sorry to have kept you waiting. Let me just wash up and change, and we can be on our way.”

“Did you eat?” she asked, concerned. She didn’t want him thinking he had to skip breakfast just because he’d overslept. She could wait a little longer.

“I — no. I thought we should practice first.”

“I don’t mind waiting. Please, my lord, order some breakfast.”

A palace servant arrived with a tray while Lord Alexander was shaving. While he ate, clad now in his practice clothes, Kel worked on her petition. “What’s that?” he asked after a while, in between hurried bites of bread and cheese.

“It’s my petition to the king,” she replied, distractedly.

He stared at her. “Your what? Why?”

“I’m going to ask him to change the law.”

There was a brief silence. “Change the law,” he repeated slowly.

“You said that Duke Turomot wouldn’t bend, and I think you’re probably right about that. But the king might.”

Lord Alexander was staring at her, his mouth hanging slightly open. “I see,” he said, at last.

“I don’t know if he’ll listen, but I have to try. At the very least, it will set a precedent. My petition will be recorded, and the next time someone tries to change a law like this one, it might help.”

He was silent again for a time, his eyes on hers. She didn’t know what he saw there, but eventually he nodded. “When?”

“As soon as possible.”

“All right,” he said quietly. “I should be able to get you an audience with Roger today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been reading this regularly, you've probably noticed that this chapter is later than usual. I'm starting to run out of chapters that have already been both written and revised, so between that and life intruding, I've decided to switch to updating every other weekend to maintain my own sanity.
> 
> In retrospect, it's kind of hilarious that it took me this long, in a fairly political fic, to clarify who Roger's prime minister was, but in my defense, none of you seemed to question that.
> 
> A few lines are borrowed from _Squire_ , and what Prince Jonathan says to kick off the duel is from _In the Hand of the Goddess_ , specifically the bit where Alanna duels Dain of Melor.
> 
> There's an action scene in the next chapter after this one that features Kel's sparrows in a prominent enough role that working on it made me realize that her animals conspicuously disappeared from the story during that fight with the hurroks in the previous chapter. Which is kind of a wild oversight in a series with an animal-based titling convention. So I've revised that scene in Chapter Ten to include them.


	12. A Candle in the Dark

Lord Alexander managed to secure them a meeting with the king that morning. When he returned to the apartment, Kel was busy scouring her mail beside the sitting room hearth; after months on the road, it needed a thorough cleaning. “We’re set to meet with him at eleven,” he told her, and then rubbed his temples. “We’ll have Roger’s attention for half an hour.”

“Thank you, my lord. Are you all right?”

“It’s nothing. Just a headache.” He sank into a chair beside the fire, and then summoned his manservant and asked him to make them some tea.

At eleven, Roger was waiting for them in a small assembly room near the grander hall where the Council of Lords usually met. He sat in a chair on the dais, bathed in winter sunlight. Kel bowed to him, her hands shaking as she straightened. She clasped them behind her back, suppressing the urge to touch the pendant Lord Thom had given her, for luck, which she’d tucked away under her shirt.

“Thank you again for granting us this audience with you, Your Majesty,” she heard her knight-master say. He stood just behind her and to her right, letting her take the lead here.

A smile spread slowly over Roger’s face. “Of course, Alex. I do hope you won’t vanish from another party on a whim, though. We missed you last night.”

Kel frowned, puzzled. But she had seen him there, talking with Lord Martin. When had he left?

“I’m sorry, sire.”

The king turned his attention on her. “Now, what may I do for you, Squire Keladry?” he asked, his smile brightening by a few degrees. She remembered something that Prince Jonathan had once said, that charisma was its own kind of magic, and fought the sudden desire to say whatever would please him. Then she thought of her knight-master’s advice from the day before: _Use the beginning of the duel to figure out what he likes to do, and then use it against him_. It seemed like it could be good advice for a negotiation as well, though she wasn’t political in the same way that her parents were, with the ease of long practice.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Your Majesty,” she began, wanting to be polite even if he was going to be informal with her, saying _I_ instead of _we_. He liked to play at being one’s friend, she knew, just as she knew she couldn’t respond in kind. “My lord tells me you are aware of why we returned to Corus early.”

Roger inclined his head. “He told me of the trial, yes. I believe I’ve neglected to tell you how sorry I was to hear of the kidnapping.”

For an instant Kel hesitated, not having expected the genuine sympathy she saw on his face. Or at least, it looked genuine to her. “Thank you, sire,” she managed, and then cleared her throat. “Now, if I may, I’d like to tell you some of the details of the trial, and about the law which allowed Joren of Stone Mountain to receive nothing more than a fine for what he did.”

The Lord Provost required written reports from every knight in service to the Crown, except when a knight patrolled their own lands. During wartime, her commanding officer might require a regular report from her as well. In the evenings, before her service at banquets or parties, Lord Alexander had begun teaching Kel how to write reports the way he did, making them detailed enough but still concise. She tried to do him credit now, with her recounting of the trial.

When she was finished, the king leaned back in his chair, frowning. “I’m familiar with this law,” he admitted. “It’s an old one, written in a different time. I’m not surprised to see it’s begun to breed resentment now.”

He glanced sharply at Lord Alexander again. “Lord Tirragen, would you say that your squire gave an accurate report of the trial?”

“I would, sire.”

The king’s gaze returned to Kel. It was hard to look away when his eyes met hers, almost like the night that Thom of Trebond had caught the pages fighting and frozen them with his magic. “It’s my understanding that you challenged Squire Joren and won,” he said mildly. “The average knight — or squire — would be satisfied with that, I believe.”

“I understand, sire,” she replied. “But one duel doesn’t change anything, really. It doesn’t change the law itself, and the law is wrong. If Joren had kidnapped me instead of my maid, he would have gotten prison or a trial by combat. But instead, _I_ got paid for the inconvenience of Lalasa being frightened half to death. They charged him for the loss of her time, to me and the noblewoman whose dress she was making then, and Joren’s money won’t even go to _her_. It goes to me, as her mistress. That’s like saying that common folk are slaves, that their rights are measured in coin.”

The king studied her for a moment, his head cocked slightly to one side. He looked as though he were examining a document written in some unfamiliar language. “You’re certainly tenacious,” he said at last. “What would you have me do?”

She swallowed. “Change the law, sire.”

His eyebrows ascended, and she saw him fighting a smile. “Change the law,” he repeated. “Just like that, with a wave of my hand? Squire, let me be perfectly clear with you — you’ve argued your point well, and I’m not at all surprised, given your parents’ diplomatic success. I expect that when you were a child in the Yamani Islands, you saw them at work?”

Kel nodded, uncertain of where he was going with this.

Roger leaned forward in his chair, his eyes fixed on hers. “You saw them dancing politely around the courtiers there, trying to please everyone all the time and usually managing to please no one. Keladry, that is what being a king is like. A king must treat and compromise with everyone, balancing countless different interests in the hopes that he may get something done without inspiring the nobility to rebel against him.”

He paused, studying her face intently; she wondered what he saw there. “This law you’re trying to change, you said that it reminds you of slavery. I won’t deny that you have a point there. But tell me, have you learned about why Tortall doesn’t have slavery anymore?”

She nodded again. “Yes, sire.”

He leaned back in his chair. “In the third century, there was a conspiracy to overthrow my namesake, Roger the Third, and install his brother on the throne instead,” he began, sounding very much like her father did when he told bedtime stories to her nieces and nephews at Mindelan. “The king was trying to pass legislation that displeased certain mages and members of the nobility, so in response they laid waste to the summer palace, kidnapping his young son and selling the boy into slavery. After the prince was recovered and the conspirators were executed, Roger the Third freed all of the slaves in Tortall. Do you recall what happened next?”

“A period of civil war, sire,” said Kel quietly.

“Precisely. Nowadays, we celebrate Roger the Third as a liberator. He made the kind of massive, sweeping change that some of my subjects would _like_ me to make, and he paid for it. For every law I attempt to change, even the smallest among them, I have to compromise with nobles, merchants, mages, priests and priestesses — the list goes on. Even the citizens of the Lower City may choose to riot in the streets, if I don’t keep my people happy.” He smiled again, a little ruefully. “That law I passed, allowing you to become a page? I’m still facing repercussions for that.”

She tried not to scowl at him, thinking of her probationary year. That had been a compromise, and he wasn’t the one who had suffered most because of it. Compromises, it seemed to her, often didn’t directly affect the people who made them.

“I have changed many laws over the years, my dear,” he said. “Every time I do so, I must consider everyone who might object to it, as well as everyone who might support it. Every law I propose offends someone, I’m afraid. I weigh the value of it against that.”

“My point is the same, Your Majesty,” she replied. “This law is just plain bad.”

He fell silent again, gazing thoughtfully at her. “I suppose,” he said at last, “that if I were going to revise it, now would be the best time to do so, in the wake of the trial.”

“You may be able to get Turomot’s support,” said Lord Alexander. Startled, Kel couldn’t stop herself from turning to look at him. He met her eyes, shrugging. “If he ever decides to bend, now would probably be the time,” he explained, to both of them. “You weren’t there in the courtroom, Roger, when some mouthy brat told him he’d caved under royal pressure. He was so angry I thought he might drop dead on the spot.”

She turned back to the king, whose eyes were fixed on Lord Alexander, his brows raised dramatically. “I’m sorry I missed it,” he murmured. Then he cleared his throat. “Well, the Mithrans and the Daughters of the Goddess should be easy enough to win over. Between them and the Council of Commons, we might be able to put enough pressure on the nobility to keep them from being deadlocked over this for years. With a few powerful sponsors —”

“Naxen,” suggested Lord Alexander.

“Gareth the Younger, certainly, but I’m not sure of the duke —”

“He’ll back you on this, I think. He usually agrees with Gary, especially in recent years. I think you’ll be able to get Legann on your side as well.”

“Not the Minchis.”

“No, but Queenscove for sure.”

The king nodded, and then returned his attention to Kel. “Well, there you are, Keladry. I cannot change the outcome in Lalasa’s trial. But I have heard you, and I will work to ensure that something like this does not happen again in the future.”

She blinked, surprised by the speed with which he’d come to his decision. So this was how kingdoms were run, how the fates of millions of people were decided. She was glad she’d decided to become a knight; her life would be much simpler than the king’s seemed to be. “That’s a start,” she told him. “Thank you, sire.”

His smile turned a little odd, equal parts quizzical and sardonic, and she realized she might have overstepped her bounds. “You’re not a mage, are you?” he asked, after a brief silence — not what she’d expected him to say.

“No, Your Majesty.”

His smile faded to a puzzled frown. “No, I thought not. Tell me, do you —”

There came a knock at the door behind them, interrupting him. Still frowning, the king waved his hand, and the assembly room door swung open. One of the pages stood there, his face milk-white. He was flanked by the two men of the King’s Own who had stood guard outside the door during her audience with the king.

“Yes?” said Roger. “Is something wrong?”

The page straightened from a deep bow. “Forgive me for interrupting, Your Majesty,” he said, looking as though he were about to keel over. “One of the palace guardsmen sent me — he says they’ve received word that spidrens were sighted in the Royal Forest this morning. There’s a woodcutter missing, he says. He left his village around dawn and hasn’t returned.”

The king studied him for a moment, and then smiled brilliantly. “Thank you for telling me, Page Emry. You did very well.” He glanced up, his eyes focusing on someone else. “Alex, take four squads of the King’s Own. You’re in command.”

“Yes, sire,” Kel heard him say quietly and evenly from behind her.

Roger smiled again. “No doubt it will be a useful education for your squire.”

They retreated from the assembly room with Page Emry in tow. “Tell Sir Glaisdan to send me four squads,” said Lord Alexander to him, as he led them down the corridor toward the Tirragen palace apartment. “Have them muster at the northern gate.”

“Yes, my lord,” said the boy. A little of the color was beginning to return to his face. “He knew my _name_. How —”

“He does that sort of thing. You should be able to find Sir Glaisdan in the Haryse apartment, this time of morning. Remember to tell him I sent you, and make sure you tell him we’ll be running into danger, and possibly bad weather. That should prevent him from sending me his laziest men.”

After Emry had bowed to them and jogged off down the corridor, he added under his breath, “My family is in the Book of Gold, so Glaisdan shouldn’t delay for _too_ long.”

“Sir?” said Kel, when they were striding off toward his rooms again. “What _was_ that, in the assembly room?”

He seemed to understand her perfectly. “That was Roger deciding he’d rather have you as his friend than his enemy.”

She nodded slowly, turning that over in her mind. “He was upset, after you missed the ball last night.”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t miss it. I saw you there.”

Lord Alexander glanced at her. “I left early,” he said, after a moment.

 _That_ was interesting, especially considering the fact that he had apparently spent the night in someone else’s rooms. She recalled his irritation throughout the Grand Progress, all those nights where he had turned into a block of wood at various banquets and parties, and suspected that she had seen him finally reach the end of his patience with royal festivities.

“Roger surprised you, didn’t he?”

She nodded again. “I don’t think I was really expecting him to agree with me. But I had to say _something_ , for my own peace of mind. I had to try.”

“You were right to try.”

She looked at him, surprised. “You think so?”

“You felt strongly about changing that law,” he replied, meeting her eyes calmly. “And you certainly have courage, to take matters all the way to the king.”

He valued courage, she thought, more than a lot of other traits. “Why would he agree to change the law just for me?”

Lord Alexander appeared to give that some consideration. “To some extent, I think he agreed with your argument. It’s a bad law, and the political tide is starting to turn in the Eastern Lands; laws protecting noble privilege to that extent are becoming less popular. Roger’s a savvy politician, and he wants history to look back on his reign someday and say it was a good one.” He glanced at her again. “And I meant what I said about him wanting to make a friend of you. In general, he’d much rather have friends than enemies.”

Kel frowned, unable to hide her discomfort with that. “But he doesn’t have to. Either way, I owe him my duty.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a smile spread over his face. “Ah yes, duty,” he said, leading her down a narrow, shadowy corridor half-concealed by a staircase. “Shortcut,” he explained. “Remember everything he said about conspiracies, and civil war, and the nobility rising against the king? Duty doesn’t count for much, in situations like that. Roger wants to inspire _loyalty_. He wants people to love him. He always has.”

She thought that over, remembering the look of seemingly genuine sympathy on the king’s face, when he had told her how sorry he’d been to hear about Lalasa’s kidnapping. He probably inspired loyalty and love in a lot of people. She wasn’t one of them, though.

“Why did he ask whether I was a mage?”

He was silent for a moment, frowning thoughtfully, and then he said, “I’m not sure. Perhaps he just likes to know who his mages are. He interviewed all of us — the squires and pages — when he first returned to the palace, before he was king. To find out whether we had magic. And he still takes an interest in the pages’ magic classes, as I’m sure you know.”

She nodded, not entirely satisfied with his answer. They were both missing something about the king, she thought, as they emerged into the corridor where the Tirragen apartment was.

He unlocked the door to the sitting room. “Now, to work. We’ll want polearms for this — nobody wants to get too close to a spidren.”

Thom was halfway through the first fish course when he realized that something was seriously amiss: Alex was nowhere to be found, not seated at any of the nearby tables nor up on the dais with the king.

That bode ill, though he hadn’t been having a very good day up to that point anyway. He had awoken late that morning, bleary-eyed and disoriented, with the dim recollection of Alex untangling himself from the blankets in the middle of the night and lying to him about it being time to get up. The room was freezing, and in the pale winter sunlight he felt unpleasantly alone.

From the comfort of his bed, he waved a hand and a fire blazed in the hearth, consuming the ashes from the night before and continuing to burn without any fuel. The room grew steadily warmer. After a few minutes, he forced himself to get up, shrugged on his dressing gown, and stumbled into his dressing room to clean his teeth.

By the time he’d emerged from his bedroom, dressed more or less properly for the day, breakfast was waiting on a table beside the hearth, and his manservant Colwin was in the midst of tidying some of his less dangerous books. Sighing, Thom sank into a chair beside the table and rubbed his temples.

“Late night, my lord?”

Thom looked at him, trying to recall whether he’d laid a silencing circle around his bedroom the night before. It didn’t really matter either way. Colwin had seen worse — most dramatically, the day he’d returned from the palace tailors to find that a jar on Thom’s desk had overturned itself, and its contents had eaten through the wood and the flagstones below, filling the sitting room with noxious green smoke. “I’ve made a terrible mistake,” Thom said to him. “But if you’d seen his biceps, I’m sure you would have understood.”

“No doubt,” said Colwin, rather dryly. “Surely it’s not as bad as all that, though.”

Thom took an experimental sip of tea, found that it had cooled to a drinkable temperature, and downed about a third of the cup in one gulp. “If I’m banished from the capital, the victim of a king’s petty jealousy, you may be called upon to return some books to the palace libraries. I’ll do my best to indicate which ones should be returned where. You’ll have to pack my best attire, of course, as I’m planning on throwing myself on the mercies of the Gallan or the Tusaine court, though it’s going to be impossible getting through the mountains this time of year. I suppose we’ll have to go to Carthak. No, you know what? I’m _taking_ those books with me. If Roger wants them back, he can send a messenger. Bring me one of my headache powders, would you?”

At the banquet that evening, he was seated near the dais with Harailt of Aili and a few Yamani mages — including Lord Haruto, to his annoyance, who kept trying to draw him into a conversation. Thom kept his responses as brief and neutral as he could, trying to avoid an international incident, his attention mostly on his wine until the moment Alex’s absence struck him like a thunderbolt.

It might have been a coincidence. Perhaps he’d just been called away on some sort of knight business. It was entirely possible that he and Roger hadn’t even crossed paths that day.

From a certain perspective, what had happened the night before was actually Roger’s fault. If not for Carthak, if not for having been forced to conspire with Alex, far from the prying eyes of the royal family, Thom might never have realized how much he enjoyed his company. That the man could actually _converse_ , if you only managed to find a subject that interested him. That he had a sense of humor, and very nice legs.

Out of nowhere, Thom recalled a morning in the middle of the peace talks, in the middle of trying not to fall asleep during a tense negotiation between Duke Gareth and Duke Etiakret, when suddenly he had noticed movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned to look.

A few chairs away sat Alex, drumming his fingers rhythmically on the table and looking bored and resentful. Sunlight spilled through the unshuttered window behind him, glinting off his hair and warming his skin. Thom watched him for a moment, struck by how alive he looked in the morning light, as a breeze stirred his hair. There was some quality of imminent motion about him that reminded Thom of Alanna; their stillness was a lion’s stillness.

He watched Alex’s eyes narrow as Duke Etiakret droned on, his long lashes flutter down toward his cheekbones. Alex rested his chin on his fist, his full mouth twisting with annoyance. After a moment, he sat up again and poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table. Thom watched his throat move as he drank from it, transfixed.

In some ways, the timing of this revelation was ideal. If they were going to have some sort of ill-advised physical encounter, it would be smartest to have it in Carthak, several hundred miles away from Roger. It might even be relaxing, compared to the stress of the peace talks and Ozorne’s imminent assassination. Unfortunately, Alex had turned out to be remarkably resistant to seduction — at least until the stress of the Grand Progress had finally broken him. What dreadful timing they both had. And how little Thom had cared about that, in the end.

By the time the servants brought out the last subtlety, he had decided it was best to get things over with sooner rather than later. Afterward, when the king rose from his chair on the dais, Thom followed suit. He followed Roger out of the banquet hall and into the ballroom, elbowing his way to the front of a small crowd of courtiers.

Roger was chuckling at something one of the Minchis had said. Pasting a bland smile on his face, Thom shoved in closer to him. “Lovely party, sire.”

“Isn’t it?” said Roger, and it wasn’t really a question. “Where’s your friend?”

Evidently he and Alex had crossed paths that day after all. “I’m not sure whom you mean, sire,” said Thom, smiling quizzically at him. “I thought we’d agreed that I have no friends.”

Roger chuckled. “There’s that famous wit I’m so fond of. I’m speaking of Alex, of course. I was disappointed to miss you both last night.”

“So sorry about that. I couldn’t tell you _where_ Alex is, I’m afraid. I’d expected him to be here.”

“Mm,” said Roger, his eyes glinting a little too brightly in the lamplight as he continued to smile at him. “I don’t mind at all, of course. I’m extraordinarily happy for you both.”

Such extravagant word choice seemed like a bad sign. “I’m so glad to hear it, sire.”

Roger patted him on the shoulder, still smiling. “I’d never realized you were so fond of each other, but in retrospect, I suppose it makes sense. After all, proximity can make for such strange bedfellows. Which reminds me, Austell Foxglove? Really? You certainly do get up to mischief while I’m gone.”

Thom blinked, momentarily taken aback by the sudden change of subject. He had appointed Foxglove to the university faculty back in November, and hardly thought about him since then. “Of course I do. I’ve always gotten up to mischief. What’s wrong with Foxglove?”

Judging by Roger’s hearty chuckle, there was a joke here that he was missing. “I can’t stand the man. Good luck with him.”

“I don’t have to _like_ him,” said Thom, with a shrug. “But he’s a genius with plant magic.”

“No doubt. Ah, there’s the Tyran ambassador. I’m afraid I have to go flatter him. Would you excuse me?”

Thus dismissed, Thom retreated to the edge of the crowd to recover from the conversation he’d just had. A passing squire offered him a cup of wine, and he took it gratefully. There was still no sign of Alex, and no one else he particularly wanted to talk to. He took a sip of his wine, considering his options. Roger hadn’t explicitly banished him from the premises, so there was no reason to hurry back to his rooms and tell Colwin to begin packing. On the other hand, he didn’t want to be here.

A hand tugged on his robe, and he glanced down. Beside him stood Sandy, the youngest prince, clad in the same shade of green velvet as his father. “Lord Thom? I have a question.”

Thom regarded him thoughtfully. Based on past experience, he knew this was likely to be a long conversation, but at least it might be distracting. “Very well. But first I have a question for you. Do you happen to know where your namesake might be? Dear old Uncle Alex?”

“I think he’s still in the Royal Forest. Gavain said that spidrens were sighted there this morning. Father sent a few squads of the King’s Own to fight them, with Uncle Alex to lead them. Lerant went with them, too.”

“Ah,” said Thom, not at all surprised to learn that Roger had apparently known Alex’s whereabouts the whole time. “What is it you wanted to ask me?”

“What were the Old Ones? Were they people, or were they more like the gods?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”

Sandy frowned. “Why not? Father won’t tell me anything about them either.”

“That’s because he doesn’t know, and he hates being asked too many questions he can’t answer,” said Thom, amused. “ _Nobody_ knows very much about the Old Ones. I hadn’t realized you were so interested in them.”

“Who isn’t interested in mysterious ancient civilizations?”

“Fair point.” He stifled a yawn, struck suddenly by how exhausted he was. He hoped Alex wasn’t feeling the same way. If he was, a spidren may already have eaten him. “You know, there used to be a teacher here who devoted a good deal of time to studying the Old Ones. Some of their ruins were on his lands, and he used to explore them.”

Sandy’s eyes lit up. “Who?”

“Sir Myles, the Baron of Olau.” It was unusually warm in the ballroom for a winter’s night; in his plush tunic and heavy robe, Thom was beginning to feel overdressed. “He taught the pages history and law in your Uncle Alex’s day. Now I’m afraid he’s the ambassador to Galla. Has been for the last decade or two.”

“Father should bring him back to court.”

Thom wondered whether Myles would willingly return now. He certainly wouldn’t, if he were in Myles’s position. “You should tell your father that. Unfortunately, I have no sway in the matter. Now, I believe Sir Myles is currently working on a multi-volume history of the Eastern Lands, which devotes considerable space to ancient history. I correspond with him from time to time.”

He studied Sandy thoughtfully, and it occurred to him how much time it would free up to have the prince bothering Sir Myles instead of him. “If you wanted to write to him with your questions, I could enclose your letter with my next one.”

“Would you?” asked Sandy, beaming up at him.

“Certainly. Bring it to me at some point before the end of the year, and I’ll see to it that your letter reaches him.”

He sneezed suddenly, bringing the sleeve of his robe up to his face just in time to avoid sneezing on the prince. Suspicion crept over him. He glanced up, narrowing watery eyes at Roger, who was still talking with the Tyran ambassador.

“Are you all right?” asked Sandy, looking concerned.

“I’m fine.” Thom shivered, feeling a sudden chill; when it passed, the room grew uncomfortably hot again. He sneezed violently again, and one of the queen’s ladies glanced witheringly at him.

“Perhaps you should visit Duke Baird.”

“Yes,” said Thom, frowning at Roger. “I think perhaps I should.”

They returned to the palace long after sundown, exhausted and half frozen, when the ground was blanketed with new-fallen snow and the sky was a rush of swirling white. “Not even Roger would be amused if I stumbled into the banquet hall in this state,” said Lord Alexander to Kel, when they were outside the mess hall that served the King’s Own. A welcoming light shone through the cracks where doors and shutters met solid wood. “We’ll eat with the men tonight.”

“I won’t argue, sir.”

She ended up sitting with a few of the younger knights who had tagged along, including Lerant, who had challenged her to a contest during the ride into the Royal Forest, betting that he could slay more spidrens than her — a contest which had quickly fallen by the wayside when the real fighting had started.

“How many do you think you got, in the end?” he asked her over supper.

Kel took a sip of hot cider, thinking. “On my own? Two, I think. There was already an arrow in the second one, but it didn’t seem to have slowed it down much.” That spidren had leapt down from the trees almost on top of her, wielding a heavy battered sword.

Lerant raised his eyebrows. “How funny. I got two as well. The rest were more of a group effort.”

“It’s almost as though battle isn’t a silly contest,” one of the other young knights, Kieran haMinch, said teasingly. There was a patch of new skin on his cheek, pink and shiny after the healing, where a splash of corrosive spidren blood had caught him in the face.

“I _did_ tell you my lord was probably thinking of this as more of a learning opportunity for me,” she reminded Lerant.

“And I told you he loves silly contests,” he replied, clapping her on the back in a friendly sort of way, the way his brother often did. “He pretends he’s above them now that he’s older and wiser, but you should watch him play chess with my uncle sometime. They both turn into monsters. I once saw him overturn a table.”

Kel frowned, skeptical, and then glanced toward the table where Lord Alexander sat, laughing and joking with the men of the King’s Own. She couldn’t picture him overturning a table in front of the king.

“You think I’m lying,” said Lerant, “but I swear it’s true. Now, are you going to finish your soup?”

The snow was beginning to let up by the time they returned to the palace. It was late, and the corridors were all but deserted. At one point, as they crossed a wide gallery, Kel heard distant, ghostly laughter from the direction of the main ballroom. “Remember, Roger told me not to vanish from another party on a _whim_ ,” said Lord Alexander, when she glanced inquiringly at him. “This isn’t a whim, this is me asleep on my feet in muddy clothes with, I fear, bits of spidren web in my hair. I’m going to bed, and I advise you do the same.”

She studied him in the dimming lamplight. “Your hair looks fine, sir.”

“Good. That stuff makes my skin itch. You fought bravely today, you know. Did you learn anything?”

Kel thought for a moment, recalling the way she’d heard him talking to the men, just before they’d set out on their hunt: plainly laying out the facts he knew, laughing at a joke, even making one at his own expense, but also giving orders with the clear expectation they would be obeyed. She’d learned something about leading an army, just from watching him. She appreciated that, though it wasn’t a lesson she thought she’d really need, and she told him as much.

He glanced at her. “Why not?”

She had thought it would be obvious. She paused, trying to figure out how to explain without making him think she felt sorry for herself. “Because nobody wanted me to be a knight, sir. Nobody wanted me to make it this far. I doubt anyone’s ever going to put me in charge of a squad of ten, let alone an army.”

He was silent, watching her intently, and then he shrugged. “You might be right. Then again, you might not be. With the immortals back, we need all the help we can get, and you have a knack with people and a clear head in a fight. Suppose somebody does put you in charge of a squad, and you haven’t done the work to know how to manage it. What then?”

She had to admit he had a point there. It was better to learn something she might not need than to refuse a lesson that would have helped her.

“I was a terrible leader at first, you know.”

Kel turned back to him, surprised. “You were?”

He nodded. “I used to just order people about. I was imitating my father, I suppose — but I was barely twenty-one when he died, and grass green. Nobody had the least respect for me. I had to learn how to treat them like _people_ , instead of mere chess pieces I could shove around. You already do that.”

“Sometimes you can learn more from having to work at something,” she said, thinking again of the overturned table, and the chess pieces scattered over the rug.

“True.” He fell silent again. When they had nearly reached his rooms, he said, “You know, I was unsettled by your sparrows at first, but they really came in useful today.”

Kel smiled, but had the uneasy sense that he still thought of the birds more as objects than individual creatures. “They’re good scouts, sir. These ones chose it, rather than stay with Lalasa.”

The sparrows had returned to her room at some point during supper, after sleepily watching her brush down Peachblossom and War Hammer in the stable. Leaving the sitting room door open, she refilled their food and water dishes, and then sat down on the rug to inspect her weapons. Shiro lay down beside her, rolling over onto his back to entice her to rub his belly.

“We’ve both had enough excitement for the week,” said Lord Alexander from the sitting room. “Aside from tending to your armor and weapons, you can take tomorrow morning and afternoon off. I’ll see you after the banquet. I recommend you sleep in tomorrow,” he added, before going into his bedroom.

Kel didn’t sleep in. She rose at her usual time, went to her dawn naginata practice, and stayed for breakfast afterward in Shinkokami’s sitting room, lingering there at the table long after her mother and Jessamine left.

“You didn’t miss much,” Shinko told her, while Yuki and Lady Haname began to get ready for the day. “The fire dancers were very good, but I actually preferred the acrobats from our first night in Port Caynn. And I think you missed the rainstorm. We got caught in it as we were leaving the city. The king was _very_ annoyed.”

Her ladies had left the doors to their rooms open; Kel could hear them talking indistinctly about their social schedules and what they ought to wear, the blue silk or the bronze.

“Exhausting, isn’t it?” said Shinko, noticing she was distracted. “All these afternoon parties and leisurely rides, I mean.”

“Hm?” said Kel. “Oh, I’m just tired.”

“Of course you are. You were away for hours yesterday, doing something useful.”

“You could fight spidrens,” said Kel, “but I don’t think I could eat dinner with the royal family every night.” She tried to pass it off as a joke, but it was true, and suddenly she thought of her audience with the king the day before. That had been just as useful as protecting villagers from spidrens, and Shinko was probably in a better place than her to negotiate with royalty.

Shinko sighed. “I could, if I weren’t always confined to the palace. But it would probably cause an international incident.” She poured herself some more tea. “At least my mother-in-law is nice enough, this time.”

“What about Jonathan?”

She glanced at her as she raised the cup to her lips and blew across it. “Actually, he’s been very pleasant lately. He sticks to safe topics, but he’s always asking questions now. He wants to know my opinions about things.”

Kel raised an eyebrow. As they’d seen over the summer, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

“He’s always telling me things his father told him, though. I don’t like it when a man keeps telling me his _father’s_ opinions.”

Kel frowned, trying to remember whether Jonathan did that with her. He did seem to talk about the king more often than Jessamine or Gavain did, but never to an extent that she had noticed it before. “He’s his father’s squire,” she pointed out. “They must spend a lot of time together. He’ll probably develop more of his own opinions after he takes his Ordeal.”

Shinko smiled slightly, wryly. “Hopefully he develops them before his father dies, at least.” She took a sip of her tea. “But enough about him — tell me about the spidren hunt.”

She told her, and then found herself retelling the story over lunch, after a leisurely morning tending to her and her knight-master’s armor and weapons.

“You’re telling me,” said Jasson to her over lunch, “that my brother left the nice warm castle to go hunt monsters in the snow? That he _volunteered_? Who else was there? He must have been trying to impress someone.”

“One of the spidrens,” suggested Neal. “You said they led you into a trap? That’s _interesting_.”

“I didn’t know spidrens did that,” said Merric.

“That’s what it felt like,” said Kel, in between bites of venison and stewed greens. “They left pieces of their webbing on branches leading us down toward this old copper mine off the Conté Road, near where one of the villagers had seen a spidren take a sheep last week. But the sparrows hadn’t raised the alarm, so it felt like something was wrong.”

Across the table, Seaver was looking faintly queasy. “They’re cleverer than people think.”

“They tried to corner our group,” she went on, “but the sparrows warned us before they attacked. Fortunately we’d split up, and Sergeant Ulliver’s men were nearby.”

“You met Ulliver of _Linden_?” said Merric, his eyes lighting up. “Did you get to see him fight barehanded?” Kel had felt the same awe the day before: Sergeant Ulliver was Sir Glaisdan’s second in command and the man largely responsible for turning the King’s Own into a more competent fighting force than the joke Neal said it had been in King Roald’s time, and he was rumored to be as deadly with his fists as any Shang warrior.

She shook her head. “He had a spear. He’s a sight to behold with a weapon, though.”

Neal was looking thoughtful. “I wonder how the spidrens planned it. How they communicate, I mean.”

“Probably by shrieking at each other,” said Jasson.

Neal shrugged. “Sometimes I wonder how those Carthaki mages managed to lure the spidrens out of the Divine Realms.”

Kel frowned at him. She’d never thought that monsters might need any prompting to attack human settlements.

Because the snow had let up, she went into the city after lunch, to visit Lalasa and get some Midwinter shopping done. Lalasa’s dress shop was near the Temple District, a short walk from one of the better markets in Corus, and the streets there were crowded, the snow underfoot turned to muddy slush by countless boots.

A glance through the front window told her the dress shop was crowded, too. Kel hesitated, pausing in the street to let a pair of girls pass in front of her. “That’s where Milla takes self-defense lessons,” she heard one of them say.

“What, _there_?” said the other girl. There was a hint of the Lower City in both their voices. “That’s a ladies’ shop.”

Kel glanced at them, surprised. They were walking away from her, toward the temples, a fleeting pair of ribbon-edged cloaks.

Inside the dress shop was chaos, a battlefield of silk and measuring tape with Lalasa in command. She was saying something to one of her assistants as Kel slipped into the room and was immediately clipped by another customer’s shopping basket. Then she looked up, and her face brightened. “My lady! I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

“It’s so busy in here,” said Kel, still marveling at the crowd. “Is it always like this?”

She shook her head. “Midwinter. Everyone’s throwing parties, this time of year.”

Kel stepped aside, dodging a young woman carrying a bolt of cloth. “Perhaps I should come back when you aren’t so busy.” In retrospect, she should have gone to the marketplace first, so she’d have a gift for Lalasa, but she had wanted to see her shop first, to see her in her element there. Somehow she had expected Lalasa’s element to be a calmer one.

“Yes,” said Lalasa distractedly, looking over Kel’s shoulder to watch one of her assistants for a moment. She returned her attention to Kel’s face, smiling again. “I close up later on Tuesdays, but there’s usually a lull in the evenings. Come back then if you can — and you can tell me all about the Grand Progress,” she added, something Kel had promised to do before she’d left that summer.

“I’ll try to see you before the year’s over,” said Kel, catching her hand and squeezing it briefly. “Happy Midwinter.”

Alex knew the king would want to hear about the spidren hunt sooner rather than later. He also knew that Roger was unlikely to wake up before eight or nine, so he gave himself permission to sleep in that morning.

It was past dawn, a gray winter dawn, by the time he made his way over to the king’s apartment. The sitting room door opened at his knock, but the room was empty save for a blazing fire, a sign that one of the servants had been there recently.

He found Roger still in bed, with his hair a mess and one of the queen’s ladies dozing beside him. The king sat up when he saw him, stifling a yawn. He looked exhausted; he often did, as he rarely slept enough. He never had, in all the years Alex had known him. “You didn’t get back this morning, did you?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep.

“Late last night, sire,” said Alex, standing at parade rest. For a moment, he felt suddenly, achingly fond of him, sitting there amidst the rumpled bedding with his hair standing on end.

“How many spidrens?”

“About twenty.”

The lady, Melantha of Nond, lifted her head off the pillow and frowned at him, bleary-eyed. Alex nodded politely to her. They had been seated next to each other at various banquets in years past, though not since she’d married, and he’d always found her to be a reasonably pleasant conversationalist. “It’s so early,” she murmured.

“It’s just past eight-thirty, my lady,” said Alex.

“Did you happen to find that woodcutter alive?” asked Roger.

“I’m afraid not, sire.”

“Pity.”

“We did find enough of the body to identify him, though.”

“Ah,” said the king, brightening a little. “Well, at least you could give his family certainty. The head, I suppose?”

Alex shook his head. “That was in bad shape. He had a distinctive scar on one arm, though.”

“Ugh,” said Melantha, tugging the blankets over her head.

“None of them spoke, did they? The spidrens, I mean.”

“No, sire,” said Alex, frowning at him. “I’ve never known a spidren to speak.”

Roger was looking thoughtful. “No, I suppose they wouldn’t. I’ve only ever heard them shriek, on the rare occasions I’ve encountered them, but I’ve wondered from time to time. They do bear a similarity to Stormwings, and I had a surprisingly interesting conversation with a pair of Stormwings at Dunlath.”

Melantha poked her head out again, frowning suspiciously at him. “You had a conversation with Stormwings, Your Majesty?”

“The queen of a local flock, called Barzha, and her mate,” he explained. “They were actually quite civilized, once you get past the smell. Of course, birds have a certain intelligence that spiders lack.” He turned back to Alex. “Was there anything else of note?”

“No, sire. Though I should add that your nephew is unharmed, and fought bravely.”

“Ah,” said Roger, looking pleased. “I knew he would. Make sure to tell Delia that, if you happen to see her.”

Knowing a dismissal when he heard one, Alex bowed to him.

“Where are the servants?” murmured Roger, as if to himself. “Track down one of them on your way out, would you? Have them send up breakfast. I’m starving.”

After he’d taken care of that, Alex went for a walk. The palace grounds were barren in winter, but the snow wasn’t deep. He kept to the paths, where the snow had been swept away or packed down, depending on whether the nobility or the servants tended to use them; and when his hands grew chapped and numb, he ducked back inside.

He had letters to write, household accounts to look over, but he didn’t particularly want to do any of that today. Thom wouldn’t be awake yet, of course. He wandered into the nearest library to idly flip through the books, while the sun rose higher in the sky, spilling its pale light through the dusty window, until he decided that Thom had slept long enough. Then he made his way through the maze of corridors and galleries to the Trebond palace apartment, and knocked on the door.

The door swung open to reveal a blank-faced man in his early thirties, with light skin and neat brown hair, the same man who had greeted him at the door at Fief Dunlath. “Good morning, my lord. I’m afraid His Lordship isn’t feeling well this morning.”

Alex frowned. “Thom? What’s wrong with him?”

The man paused for a moment, as though running through a list of possible snide responses in his head, before settling on the blandest one. “He appears to have caught a cold, my lord.”

“Well, have you sent for Duke Baird?”

“ _Yes_ ,” said Thom, from somewhere behind his servant. “Three times.”

He appeared suddenly in the doorway, leaning against the frame as if to catch his breath, and regarded them through watery eyes. “It’s all right, Colwin, I’ll handle this. Go make me some tea, would you?”

Alex stared at him. He was even paler than usual, with dark circles under his eyes, chapped lips, and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. His nightshirt and brocade dressing gown hung limply about his thin frame; his hair, damp with sweat, hung loose to his shoulders. “Disgusting, isn’t it?” he said, and then sneezed into his elbow.

“How long have you been like this?”

Thom waved a hand idly. “Oh, all night long. It started around — eight-thirty? Nine? Somewhere around there. Just after the banquet ended last night.”

“You said you’ve seen Duke Baird _three_ times?”

Thom sighed. “By the third visit we were both a little tired of the charade, I think. The first time he worked his magic on me, I felt fine for about half an hour, and then it returned. The second time, it came back after about fifteen minutes. The third time? Five minutes, give or take.”

Alex continued to stare at him, feeling uneasy. That suggested magic, and powerful magic at that. “You think someone cursed you.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in an unhappy smile. “Come inside, won’t you? Would you like some tea?”

“All right.” He followed Thom into the sitting room, gazing around with curiosity. It had looked somewhat different at night, with the shadows hiding most of the clutter. In daylight, Thom’s sitting room was richly furnished and crowded with books, with a fire blazing in the hearth and narrow hallways branching off on either side. It was also several degrees too warm, with a pervasive stale scent that suggested illness.

“Two cups,” said Thom to his manservant, as he sank into a chair beside the fire. There was a blanket draped over the back of the chair; he drew it around himself and tucked his stockinged feet under him.

Sweat had begun to trickle down Alex’s back. “It’s stifling in here.”

“Is it?” said Thom, glancing wearily up at him.

Alex pressed the back of his hand to Thom’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”

Thom shrugged. “Oh, undoubtedly. It’s all very unpleasant, the shivering and the sweating and the sneezing. But do you know what the worst part is?”

Alex sat down in the chair beside his. “The part where it keeps coming back?”

“No, the pounding headache. I can’t focus enough to read.”

Alex glanced at the book lying open on the arm of Thom’s chair, and Thom smiled slowly. “Colwin’s been reading to me. I do love loopholes, don’t you?”

The aforementioned Colwin brought them each a cup of tea, and Thom thanked him. Alex blew cautiously across the top of his cup. “Thom, who do you think did this to you?” He didn’t want him to answer, he realized, which told him that there was someone he already suspected, below the level of conscious thought. The suspicion felt cruel, it felt disloyal, but he couldn’t shake it.

Thom glanced away, turning his attention toward the fire. “I suppose I could stand to let that die down a bit. Colwin, does the heat bother you?”

“Thom,” said Alex.

Thom sighed. “He knows me so well, doesn’t he? Can’t read — that was a nice touch. Can’t sleep, which gave me ample time to ponder how much worse my symptoms could have been, if he’d wanted to be really cruel. And I’m cold all the time, when he knows I haven’t willingly spent a winter in the north since I finished my studies. My sister always hated the cold, too, did you know that?”

Alex nodded, remembering the ice cracking under her.

“You look so grim. I _am_ glad to see you survived the spidrens, you know. I knew you would. He didn’t do anything else to you, did he?”

He shook his head. “He was in an odd mood yesterday morning. But I wasn’t sure —”

“Oh, of course he was cross with us,” said Thom archly, with a little shrug of his shoulders. “Wouldn’t you be, in his place? Suppose _your_ best friend had missed one of your endless parties because he was in bed with an old conquest of yours?”

Alex glanced nervously at Colwin.

“Oh, he doesn’t care. He’s used to my antics by now.”

Deciding it was best not to argue, Alex took a tentative sip of his tea, and found it tasted like a campfire smelled. “I’m not much of a conqueror,” he said quietly, trying not to grimace, “and I hate parties.”

“True,” said Thom, and sneezed again. “It’s more than that, of course — I made the mistake of appointing someone he hates to the university faculty. In my defense, the man’s brilliant, and I hadn’t realized how much Roger dislikes him.”

Alex got to his feet and set his cup down on the little table beside his chair. “I’m going to have a talk with him,” he explained, when Thom frowned at him. “What were you planning to do? Wait until it went away on its own? That’s ridiculous.”

Thom sighed again, looking resigned. “Very well.” To Alex’s surprise, he reached for his hand, and Alex let him take it. “Just — be careful, all right?” he said, squeezing his hand.

This late in the morning, Alex found the king in his study, fully dressed and half concealed by a mountain of reports. “Back so soon?” he said mildly, when Alex entered. “Did you forget something?”

Alex gazed at him in silence for a moment, and then crossed to the desk and knelt beside his chair. “Thom’s ill,” he said, when the king shifted on his seat, turning toward him.

“Is he?”

He said nothing, keeping his gaze on the king’s slippers.

“Oh dear. You’re upset.” Roger sighed. “Why come to me about it? Was Duke Baird busy?”

“He says Duke Baird can’t fix it.”

“I see,” said Roger coolly. There was a brief pause. “You’ll be glad to know, I think, that I’ve drawn up a plan to repeal that law your squire petitioned me regarding.”

“She’ll be pleased to hear it,” Alex murmured.

“I discussed it with Lord Imrah and Lord Martin yesterday. Imrah seems receptive, but Martin has some concerns — he’s annoyed I’m trying to give his tenants more rights. Oh, but he is _fair_ to the Bazhir. He’ll lay equal waste to the lives of the Tortallans who dwell in Persopolis, after all.” Roger chuckled, without any apparent mirth. “Sometimes I think of replacing the man, but the conservatives like him well enough.”

Alex didn’t reply.

“You _are_ cross with me.” He brushed his fingers lightly over Alex’s cheek, before gripping his chin and lifting it to look him in the eye. Alex gazed reluctantly up at him, and found Roger smiling faintly at him, a rather sad look in his blue eyes. “Have you turned against me as well? Who will defend the crown, when all the staunch conservatives rally against me? When Stone Mountain calls upon Genlith, and Genlith upon Fenrigh and haMinch and Nond, who will protect me?”

“I will,” said Alex automatically, as Roger drew his hand away.

“Oh, but you don’t sound at all happy about it.”

“You’re being ridiculous, you still have the King’s Own.”

Roger cocked his head, his smile widening a little. “They’ll be late to the fight. Too busy flirting with the ladies and polishing their armor.”

They had played variations of this game before; Alex knew his lines. “You’ll have my men-at-arms, and Delia’s.”

“Marching up from Hill Country in the dead of winter? Assuming Old Lord Eldorne can bear to part with them.”

“Anything for his little girl,” said Alex, recalling the week he had spent at Fief Eldorne the first year Roger was king. They had ridden south, a few squads of the King’s Own at their backs, so that Roger could negotiate for Delia’s hand, and then Lord Eldorne had spent the week grumbling and dodging the subject. Alex recalled walking through the garden one morning, midway through the week, and overhearing Delia arguing with her father, and pointing out that she wasn’t likely to do better than the _king_. He bit the inside of his cheek to hide a smile.

“Let’s hope my own wife doesn’t turn against me, too, then.”

“Of course not.” Alex studied him for a moment. “You’d have the Trebond men-at-arms as well.”

Roger snorted. “Fifteen old men and teenage boys with rusty scythes? Not to mention they’re currently snowed in. The northern roads won’t be clear for months.”

Alex smiled. “At least we know they can fight Scanrans and wolves.”

Roger’s lips twitched, as though he were trying not to laugh. “Hardly. Thom spent far too much time putting protection spells on that frozen wasteland he calls a fief. The teenage boys have never faced a Scanran in their lives and the old men are out of practice.”

“Well, they aren’t fighting Scanrans, are they?” said Alex with a shrug. “They’re only fighting Stone Mountain, Genlith, haMinch, and Nond.”

Roger laughed. “You do cool disdain so well. You forgot Fenrigh.”

“They’re just so forgettable.”

Roger sighed, still smiling at him. “Poor Thom. Is he very ill?”

Alex nodded.

“I’m sorry. I’ll go and see him at once.” He brushed his knuckles over Alex’s jaw again. “Don’t worry. He’ll be all right.”

“What possessed you?” said Alex quietly.

He sighed again, looking suddenly very tired, and years older than he had a moment ago. The lamplight did him no favors; in spite of himself, Alex felt sorry for him. “I lost my temper, I’m afraid. I suppose I felt — neglected. I really am sorry I upset you. Go on, get up. Your knee must be killing you.”

Alex got to his feet, wincing a little when his knees cracked, and leaned against the desk. “I don’t begrudge you a little fun, really,” Roger went on, in tones of self-pity. “I suppose you were both just overcome by passion, and forgot all about me.”

“We fell asleep,” said Alex, gazing calmly down at him. “We meant to return to the ballroom, but — it had been a long day.”

Roger’s face softened a little. “Oh yes, the trial. Yes, I suppose it was a long day for you.”

He rose from his chair and pulled on the heavy robe he’d draped over the back of it. “I’ll see you both at the banquet tonight, I’m sure. Don’t worry — he’ll be perfectly healthy by then.” He smiled at Alex, and after a moment, Alex smiled back at him.

There was a part of Kel that was disappointed to have to return to ballroom service that night, rather than get back in the saddle and ride away in search of other monsters to fight.

Her knight-master spent most of the evening in the far corner of the glittering ballroom, talking quietly with Thom of Trebond, which wasn’t out of the ordinary. By her third pass around the room, he’d wandered away. She found Lord Thom leaning against the wall, scowling at the empty cup in his hand.

“Thank the gods,” he said when she appeared. She offered him another cup of wine, and he drank deeply from it, his eyes on something behind her.

Kel turned, and saw that Lord Alexander had gone to greet the king, who stood beside one of the great fireplaces on the other side of the ballroom. “I got that over with early,” said Thom. “As we were leaving the banquet hall.”

She glanced at him, frowning slightly. There was a raspy edge to his voice, and he was looking paler than usual. “Are you all right, my lord?”

He shrugged. “I had a cold last night, but I appear to be fully healed now. Right as rain, according to Duke Baird. I made him examine me again before tonight’s banquet. I _am_ exhausted, though.”

“You ought to go to bed early.”

A sardonic smile spread over his face. “Yes, I should, shouldn’t I?”

She had the sense that she was essentially telling him to eat his vegetables, which a grown man might not tolerate the way Neal did. “Well — have a good night, my lord.”

His gaze flicked over to the fireplace again. “Thank you, Kel. I’ll do my very best.”

There was more color in his face the next night, and the rasp in his voice was gone, which she took to be a good sign. If there was a cold going around, as there often was this time of year, she didn’t see any further signs of it.

On the first night of Midwinter, Lord Alexander’s manservant Enno lit a candle in the sitting room window. “Hill Country tradition,” he explained to Kel, who watched him curiously from the doorway to her room, her hair wet from a post-practice bath. “To help the sun find its way back to its rightful place in the sky.”

“From under the earth,” Lord Alexander added. He sat at his desk in the corner, frowning at a letter. Kel suspected it had something to do with the Tirragen harvest; since they’d returned to the palace, all of the mathematics problems he’d given her to solve had been about planting and harvesting olives.

A few nights later, the crown prince was set to take his Ordeal. The king had asked Lord Alexander to be the second instructor during the ritual in the chapel, so he was absent when Enno lit the candle that night. Kel watched from a chair near the fireplace; she didn’t quite understand, but she found it comforting to watch the light burn beside the darkened window.

“Do you miss it?” she asked, when the candle was lit. “Hill Country, I mean.” Enno never seemed to travel with Lord Alexander, at least not when he had a squire.

He glanced at her, his face in shadow. “Sometimes.”

“Do you ever go back?”

He stepped into the light, moving to tidy up some of the objects on the shelves. “Hardly ever,” he said, and then studied her for a moment. “His Lordship hasn’t told you anything about me, has he?”

Kel shook her head.

“I thought not. He usually lets people have their privacy. Still, he’ll probably take you to Hill Country at some point, and you might hear the story then. Might as well hear it from me. There isn’t much left there for me. A wildfire took our farm, and most of my family is dead now, either from smoke damage or what came after. It was a bad harvest that year.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, part of her wishing that she hadn’t asked.

“The gods saw fit to spare me,” he said, making it sound like a rote phrase, like a line from a prayer he’d learned as a child. “But there was very little work that winter or spring, and after a few months I turned to stealing. By chance, His Lordship was at home when I was caught, and he decided to be present for the trial.”

She frowned at him, her earlier sympathy now warring with queasy disgust. Despite his circumstances, it had been downright low of him to steal from his neighbors, people who likely had little more than he had. She had ridden through enough of Hill Country to know how close to the bone most people lived out there.

He must have seen some trace of her feelings on her face, but he didn’t react. “They were going to sentence me to the quarry, but Lord Alexander intervened. He said he had known my family and I was hardly more than a boy, and he gave me work in the castle scullery instead.”

Enno would have been around her age, then. Kel studied him, reconsidering her assessment of him. He looked to be in his late twenties at the oldest; it would have taken him ten or fifteen years to work his way up from the scullery, all the way to Lord Alexander’s palace apartment. Her knight-master must have trusted him, to bring him to the capital. How long, she wondered, had it taken Lord Alexander to see others as people rather than chess pieces, as he’d told her she already knew how to do? He must have learned how by the time Enno’s trial had taken place, enough to look at a thief and see someone in need of help. “That was kind of him,” she said at last.

“I’m grateful to His Lordship,” said Enno, his face still as calm as if he’d told this story a hundred times before. Perhaps he had, as a kind of penance. “And I like it here in Corus. Would you like some tea?”

Hill Country tea was starting to grow on her. It was red and tart, a bright taste like the summer morning when she had first tried it. She sat by the fire while she drank it, reading a history book Lord Alexander had assigned to her. The night was quiet, save for the wind howling outside and the soft noises of Enno mending some clothes in the corner.

Lord Alexander didn’t return by the time she went to bed; she hadn’t really expected him to. There was a feeling of tension in the palace that had built throughout the day, as the meager winter light faded to an early darkness. It wouldn’t dissipate until the morning, when Jonathan was expected to stumble out of the Chamber of the Ordeal, pale but unharmed. No doubt the king and queen would both be up late worrying about him, if they could sleep at all.

“— sure he’ll be fine,” said her knight-master’s voice out of the darkness. Kel woke in her bed, groggy and confused, and saw a line of light on her wall: she had forgotten to shut her bedroom door completely.

“Of course he’ll be fine,” said another voice, nearly as familiar to her. “You made it out of the Chamber alive, after all. Gods, _Roger_ made it out alive, after the Ordeal of Kings. What a joke that was. Are ordeals usually that short?”

Kel sat up, frowning. What was Lord Thom doing in her knight-master’s sitting room in the middle of the night?

“It feels much longer, when you’re the one in the Chamber,” said Lord Alexander quietly.

They moved away from the space right outside her door, their voices drifting in and out. She heard Thom say something indistinctly about drafts and high ceilings, and climbed out of bed to shut the door. She had her hand on the doorknob when she heard a noise that surprised her: a low, bubbling laugh. That wasn’t a noise she’d ever heard either of them make before; it seemed like a sign this conversation wasn’t meant for her ears.

“No, I think she’s asleep,” she heard Lord Alexander say, in response to an inaudible question. “It’s after midnight.”

“Is it really?”

Kel shut the door quietly, to give them some privacy, and went back to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue is, of course, adapted from _Squire_. There's a thing I like doing occasionally, which is making Roger uncomfortably similar to Jon, because I actually think they have more in common than the books seem to realize, in terms of personality and upbringing as well as facial hair. Jon reacted a lot better to Kel saying, "That's a start," though.
> 
> Remember when Sir Myles's history of the Eastern Lands was a single book instead of a series? Relatable.


	13. Fief Tirragen

**457 H.E.**

Kel was in the Chapel of the Ordeal the next morning before dawn, seated on a bench beside her knight-master. The room was crowded, full of tense and silent courtiers watching the iron door. It was hard to shake the feeling that the door was watching them in return.

Trying to ignore that, she turned her attention to the royal family instead. The king stood before the glittering altar, his face calm but unusually pale; Jonathan’s mother and siblings sat in a rigid line on the bench closest to the door, with Shinkokami seated on the queen’s other side. Kel watched her for a while, trying to read some sign of her emotions in what little she could see of her still form, in her high topknot and the rigid curve of one shoulder under bronze silk.

They had been waiting for about five minutes when Lord Thom slipped into the room and crowded onto the bench beside Lord Alexander, murmuring, “Shove over, Alex, would you?” There was some jostling; Kel smiled apologetically at the man seated on her other side.

Something clanked. She looked up and saw that the iron door had swung open. Beyond it lay darkness, black and solid enough to make her shudder, and then a pale figure staggered into view. The king caught the figure, steadying him, and said something quietly. Kel caught a glimpse of Jonathan’s face, weary and wide-eyed, looking up at his father and smiling, before the rest of his family rose from their bench and crowded around him. Beside her, Lord Alexander sighed audibly, his shoulders relaxing.

“I did tell you he’d be fine,” said Lord Thom in an undertone.

“You did,” murmured Lord Alexander. “But you never know.”

The iron door had swung shut of its own accord. Gazing uneasily at it, Kel said quietly, “One of my brothers told me the Chamber is like a hammer. It finds your flaws, and hits you there.”

Lord Alexander glanced at her. “He was right. It tries to break you, and sometimes it succeeds.”

Prince Jonathan was knighted at sunset; the subsequent party lasted until well after midnight. At one point, while Kel was making her third or fourth trip around the ballroom, she crossed paths with Shinko, who was leaving the dance floor. She caught her smiling quietly at something, looking more relaxed than she’d been for days. “You were worried about him, weren’t you?” Kel asked.

Embarrassed, Shinko reached for her fan to hide her face. “More than I thought I would be,” she said, when her mouth was safely concealed behind the patterned silk: golden carp printed on cream. Kel had a dim memory of Yamani warriors eating carp the night before a battle; she would bet Shinko had worn the same fan to Jonathan’s Ordeal.

She glanced back toward the dance floor. “Where is he now?”

“Dancing with the Tusaine ambassador’s wife,” said Shinko, taking a cup of cider from her tray. “Poor boy. She’ll be talking his ear off.”

She spotted him finally, leading a tall woman in her late twenties around a circle of other dancers. He looked well enough; even from a distance she could see that he wasn’t as pale or exhausted as he’d looked in the Chapel of the Ordeal. Kel had never been seriously worried that he might die in there; few squires ever did. Until now, it hadn’t occurred to her to wonder what would have happened to Shinkokami if he had. Most likely, the Grand Progress would have been paused, a new treaty would have been drawn up, and, after a brief period of uncertainty, Shinko would have been married off to Gavain. Kel turned back to her, wondering whether she had feared for Jonathan for his own sake, or for hers.

“He _apologized_ ,” Shinko said wonderingly. “He told me that he had thought about some of the things he’d said over the past several months, and that he was sorry if he’d ever made me feel like he disapproved of me, or like he thought I wouldn’t make a proper wife.”

Kel raised her eyebrows. “He did?”

“I don’t know what happened during that Ordeal,” she went on, the look in her eyes turning a little wry. “I know he isn’t allowed to talk about it. But I asked him if he was forced to relive every uncomfortable social situation he’d ever been in, and he laughed and said that he couldn’t say that _wasn’t_ what had happened.”

Kel glanced around quickly again, to make sure nobody else nearby wanted a drink from her tray. “That’s not quite what I expect my Ordeal to be like.”

What she could see of Shinko’s expression softened a little. “I’m sure there was more to it. He looked haunted, when I talked to him. I don’t know how much reflecting he did about me specifically, but — he said that he’d felt like if he couldn’t protect me, if I was as good with a weapon as any man, he would be useless to me.”

Kel stared at her for a moment, trying to wrap her head around that. “But that’s _ridiculous_. You don’t want him to be your bodyguard, you want him to be your _friend_ , at the very least.”

Shinko’s eyes widened slightly, as if in agreement. “That’s what I told him.”

Kel shook her head slowly. All this time Jonathan had been afraid that Shinko wouldn’t like him, and so he’d inadvertently tried to make sure she wouldn’t.

“I’m keeping you from your duties,” said Shinko, her eyes crinkling in a smile. “I’ll let you go now; I promised one of the prime minister’s sons a dance anyway.”

The rest of Jonathan’s year-mates made it through their Ordeals without incident. After Midwinter, the weather turned colder, freezing a crust of ice over the snow outside that glittered in the pale sunlight. The chapel was frigid the next time Kel visited it, her breath a white cloud in the dim morning light as she touched the iron door for the second time.

In this vision, she found herself facing off against Joren again, sword in hand, in Duke Turomot’s courtroom. The Lord Magistrate loomed over them from his lofty desk, which was far taller than it had been in truth; she had to tilt her head back to look up into his face. Only by killing Joren in a trial by combat, he informed her, could she reach the tower in time to rescue Lalasa and Shiro. Kel turned, and saw that the walls of the courtroom had vanished. Across the palace grounds, Balor’s Needle pierced the pale sky, a beacon that drew the eye to it.

She hesitated. A small part of her, the part where all of her tamped-down rage lay buried, did want to kill Joren; the rest of her knew this was not how the trial was supposed to go. When she turned back to face her opponent, she saw others waiting behind him, unsheathed swords in their hands: Vinson, Garvey, Quinden, even a few of the knights who had challenged her knight-master during the Grand Progress so far. She wondered whether any of them was the man who had said he’d gut Lord Alexander like a trout, for encouraging her pretensions. They advanced on her.

She didn’t have _time_ for this. Lalasa and Shiro were in danger, and it hadn’t escaped her that nowhere in that strange courtroom did she see either Ivath Brand or Urfan Noll, the men Joren had paid to do the actual kidnapping. Kel lunged in, meaning to end the fight quickly. As Joren parried her attack, Vinson came at her from the right, sword raised high. She swept her blade upward, slicing open his padded jacket and blocking his downward strike.

Movement from her left. She parried Garvey’s strike just in time. There was Joren’s blade. She knocked it aside, jumping back to gain some distance from her opponents, and found herself on her knees in the Chapel of the Ordeal. Joren had lost a duel to her weeks ago, the same day as the trial; Brand and Noll were laboring in the mines now, digging gemstones or metal ore out of the frigid earth as penance for their crime.

Her heart pounded in her chest, the adrenaline from the fight still coursing through her body. Glaring up at the Chamber door, she took a deep breath, pushed sweat-soaked hair out of her eyes, and then climbed to her feet. “You’re going to have to do better than that,” she said, before turning and walking away.

A week after Midwinter ended, another storm blew in from the northwest, battering Corus with wind, snow, and freezing rain. “The blasted weather mages say we’ll be stuck here for at least a month,” grumbled Lord Alexander, when he returned to his rooms in the midst of Kel’s pattern dance one morning, wearing the same clothes he had the night before. Outside the wind howled; whenever she opened her shutters she could see the snow continuing to pile up.

The storm had knocked down several trees in the Royal Forest, damming a mill race fed by the River Bonnett. The day after the wind and snow subsided, Lord Alexander told her to dress for cold weather and hard work and then go ready the horses. It was over an hour’s ride to the village whose sawmill had been stopped in the middle of winter, usually peak logging season, so Kel was glad when Sir Raoul joined them. He was good company, brightening her spirits and Lord Alexander’s.

They returned to the palace a few days later, cold and exhausted from helping to clear the mill race and shore up the walls of a few buildings that had begun to collapse under the heavy snow. When they crested a rise, coming within sight of Corus as it was drenched in golden afternoon light, Lord Alexander remarked, “The Grand Progress might be delayed another month. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.”

“Better to put it off,” said Sir Raoul cheerfully. “After all, it’s ending at the same time next year whether we like it or not.”

Lord Alexander was right: another storm pushed the departure of the progress back to the middle of February, when the weather was finally deemed mild enough for travel. It was bitterly cold on the day they set out, but the sky was clear and they were headed south into Hill Country and the Great Southern Desert.

He had struck some kind of deal with the king. A few days before they left, while Kel was in the midst of packing, Lord Alexander returned to their rooms in high spirits. “At Whitethorn we’re riding ahead to Tirragen,” he told her. “I want to see how my lands are faring. I’ve just cleared it with Roger. We’ll rejoin the progress at Fief Eldorne.”

He began packing his summer clothing, ignoring her when she protested that what he was doing was her job. “Don’t tell the king,” he went on, “but I’m planning on arriving a bit late. We’ll be staying at least a week at Eldorne, so with any luck he won’t care if I miss a few days.”

Kel raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t the king recently tell you not to skip any of his parties on a whim, my lord?”

“Oh, it’s not a whim,” he replied, briskly tucking his sewing kit into one of his saddle bags, next to his fishing gear and a set of small iron pots. “There’s a longstanding quarrel between the lords of Tirragen and Eldorne, going back to at least my grandfather’s day, which Roger knows all about. It’s important to keep tradition alive.”

The weather grew warmer by degrees as the Grand Progress followed the River Olorun south, skirting the edges of the grain lands in the center of Tortall. Nearly two weeks after leaving the capital, they crested a ridge overlooking the city of Whitethorn, where the River Tirragen branched off from the Olorun. As the procession turned slowly toward Whitethorn’s open gates, Lord Alexander and Kel continued east along the city walls, sparrows trailing after them. Once they were clear of the city, they followed the River Tirragen south toward the lake that was its source.

Hill Country was greener than she remembered it being, and not just the river valley, where fields of winter wheat and vegetables grew in abundance. To the east, hills that were barren with dry, bleached grasses and sun-baked red earth in summer were covered with a thick blanket of wildflowers. Kel hardly recognized them. “Do those flowers always grow here in the winter?” she asked.

Lord Alexander glanced toward the hills, frowning slightly. “There are usually more. It’s been a dry winter.”

Not long after crossing the river, they came within sight of the castle, which rose out of the sandstone cliffs looming over the eastern shore of Lake Tirragen. The stone tower gleamed red in the afternoon sunlight, above the bright mirror of the lake. To the north, at the base of the cliff, a village clustered along the edge of the water. She could see smoke from cook fires and forges, winding up over tiled roofs into the blue sky.

She followed her knight-master along the northern edge of the lake and into the village. They couldn’t pass through it unnoticed; at the sound of horses, people began to emerge from homes and shops, and many of them had something to say to Lord Alexander. Kel watched her knight-master greet them, fixing names and faces in her memory as he asked after their families. She caught a few people eyeing her, and smiled at them.

“Heard it’s been raining in the north of late, my lord,” said a small, gray-haired man called Ander Wright, whose family built fishing boats by trade. “Wish you’d brought some of that with you.”

Lord Alexander chuckled. “So do I.”

The road through the village continued along the face of the cliff, crossing and recrossing the red rock until it ended at the castle gates. Kel gritted her teeth as they began to climb. She had lost her fear of heights in the descent from Balor’s Needle, but even so, she preferred to keep her gaze fixed on the road ahead of her.

“Water line’s low,” her knight-master remarked.

Kel nodded. She’d thought that was the case, as they had ridden along the lakeshore, but he would know for sure. She had also noticed that his people wore clothes that had once been finer, but were patched and worn now, and hung slightly loose on their frames.

“With any luck, we’ll get another decent storm before the rainy season ends. Too much rain in the spring can be bad for the grape harvest, but usually we don’t have to worry about that,” he added, as the men-at-arms on the ramparts sighted them. He called up to them in the battlefield voice she rarely heard him use, and they began to raise the portcullis.

They passed through the first gate, and she noted the thickness of the outer wall with approval. Beyond it, she saw stables, storage sheds, a dovecote, and a mews. Seeing the last of these, Kel beckoned to her sparrows, pointing the mews out to them in an undertone.

Lord Alexander dismounted outside the nearest stable, and she followed suit, taking charge of their horses. They were met there by a small, brisk-looking woman wearing a falconer’s glove; a ring of keys jangled from her belt as she strode toward them.

“Ah, here’s Sencha,” murmured Lord Alexander. “She’ll want to show you to the other stable, I expect. This one is for the men-at-arms.”

She pulled off her glove as she reached them, tucking it into her belt. “I’m afraid you’ve missed lunch, my lord.”

“Progress was delayed, as usual. We ate something on the road.” He saw her glance at Kel, and went on, “Meet my new squire, Keladry of Mindelan. Kel, this is Sencha, my cousin’s wife.”

Kel looked her over: she was thirty at most, with blonde hair pinned around her head in a crown, from which a few wisps had escaped. She was dressed for work, in worn brown skirts and sensible boots, with a heavy wool cloak to guard against the cold wind. She met Kel’s eyes evenly, cocking her head slightly as she studied her. “I’ll show you where to put the horses, squire,” she said. “Lady Isra wants to meet you before dinner, but you’ll have time to wash up and change after you’re finished in the stable.”

Lord Alexander frowned. “Whatever for?” Then he shrugged, as though unconcerned about that after all. “Where is my mother, anyway? She’ll be cross if I don’t greet her immediately.”

“In the stillroom, or at least she was when I left it.”

He removed his gauntlets and helm, securing them to his saddle. “And Mikal?”

“In your study, I expect. The children are practicing their archery, else they’d be climbing on you already.”

Shiro hopped down from his leather carrier on Kasumi’s saddle to walk alongside Kel as she followed Sencha toward one of the stables. The sparrows dispersed, perching on the roofs of the nearby sheds.

Sencha led her down the aisle to a row of empty stalls. “Here’s where His Lordship keeps his horses when he’s in residence,” the lady told her, as Kel unsaddled Halberd. “You can stable your mounts in the stalls next to them.” She had a slight accent that suggested the Lake Region more than it did Hill Country.

“Thank you, my lady.”

Sencha shrugged away her thanks, though she smiled slightly. “I’ll get you their feed.”

When she had finished caring for the horses, Kel followed Sencha back outside into the outer courtyard. On the other side of the stable was a wide, dry moat, with a floor made up of sharp, jagged rocks. As they passed through the gate into the inner courtyard, Kel was glad to see that this wall was no less thick than the outer one. In the distance, she could hear the slow, slightly arrhythmic thud of arrows hitting targets.

They passed a barracks for the men-at-arms, a long, low building with stuccoed walls. The sparrows lighted briefly on the flat tiled roof, watching their progress with interest. Sencha glanced at them, frowning slightly. “Do they follow you everywhere?”

“These ones do, my lady. The flock was larger back in Corus, when I was still a page.”

Emotions were as hard to read on Sencha’s face as they were on Lord Alexander’s. “Interesting. I’ll show you to where His Lordship’s squires usually sleep.”

She led Kel through an arch leading into another courtyard, through a small desert garden, and through a doorway. Aside from a high central tower, most of the castle appeared to be a single story. Constructed of tan stone, it seemed to flow out of the cliff itself, almost as though it had been built by wind and time rather than human hands. “Have you lived here long, my lady?” asked Kel.

“Nearly eleven years now, though I’ve lived in Hill Country all my life. And call me Sencha. I won’t be the lady of the fief unless Mikal inherits.”

“I thought he was my lord’s heir.”

“He is, unless His Lordship marries and has a son. I try not to take anything for granted.”

They passed another interior courtyard, where benches stood in the shade of a few citrus trees; the layout of the castle reminded Kel vaguely of Yamani architecture. Along the edges of the courtyard, long corridors lay open to the elements on one side, shaded by low roofs. As she followed Sencha along the veranda, the evening breeze stirred her sweat-soaked hair, carrying with it scents of dry earth and stone, a hint of frost, and a greener smell she suspected was the lake.

The next courtyard they passed was smaller than the previous one, with stone steps leading down into a sunken garden. “We’re built into the rock,” Sencha told her. “Hard to grow anything up here, but we make do, and there’s plenty of space for storage below.”

The door at the far end of the veranda stood open, and as they approached it, Kel saw her knight-master sitting at a desk with another man, looking over the household accounts. He still wore his breastplate and mail, though he’d removed his cloak and thrown it over the back of a chair beside the fire. Sencha paused before the doorway, studying them with raised eyebrows. “Did you want to wash up first, my lord?”

The second man, presumably Mikal of Tirragen, looked to be in his early thirties, a decade younger than Lord Alexander. He was paler than her knight-master, with tousled brown curls rather than straight black hair, but they had similar features. “We’re going to plant more olives,” he said, without looking up from the accounts.

“Not before supper, surely.”

“Roger’s raised the import tax on Marenite goods again,” said Lord Alexander, frowning at some figure before him. “We might be able to corner the market on olive oil this year.”

“I’d ask where you plan on putting the extra trees,” said Sencha, “but I fear it will lead to a longer discussion than I’d like to have right now.” She continued past the doorway and up a narrow, curving staircase, with Kel and Shiro following at her heels. For most of the ascent, Kel kept her eyes fixed on the place where the wall met the stairs; once or twice, she glanced through one of the arrowslits and caught a narrow scrap of the golden hills to the east.

When they reached the third floor landing, Sencha led them down a short corridor away from the stairs. A narrow window set into the wall, its shutters open to let in the brisk wind, told Kel they were on the eastern side of the tower. “I’ll return for you in half an hour,” Sencha told her, as she stopped in front of a door.

Kel stepped into the room. It was narrow, without enough space to practice any pattern dances with her glaive, but the bed looked comfortable. It lay along one wall, across from a small desk near the window and a screen that looked like it concealed the entrance to a small dressing room. The shutters were open, giving her a good view of the maze of verandas and courtyards that formed the bulk of the castle, as well as the distant hills beyond the curtain wall. To the south, there lay an orchard of small trees in neatly spaced rows, still green in late winter.

Her sparrows found her while she was washing up in her dressing room. Seeing movement, she glanced up from the basin where she was splashing her face, and found Crown perched on the edge of it, watching her with interest. “This isn’t a bird bath,” she told her, amused.

Crown peeped at her. Beyond the screen, a line of sparrows perched on the windowsill, chattering to one another.

“You make sure the flock minds those falcons,” said Kel. “This is their territory, and they’re used to eating whatever songbirds they find in it.”

Crown peeped at her again, louder this time.

“Don’t tell your grandmama how to catch worms,” Kel guessed, from her tone. “All right, fair point.”

Lord Alexander’s mother was a lean, graceful woman in her early sixties, with an aquiline nose and graying black hair that had been pinned up in a style at least ten years out of fashion, under a white Tortallan-style veil. There was a strong resemblance between her and Lord Alexander, though it lay more in the general composition of their faces than in any specific features. Like Sencha, she was dressed for work and for the weather; in her heavy skirts and long woolen tunic, she might have just come from the castle stillroom. She studied Kel for a moment from across the sitting room table, and then beckoned to her maid. “Tea?” she said.

“Thank you, my lady,” said Kel. She perched on the edge of her chair, not ready to relax around her yet, and surveyed the room. Set into the southern end of the central tower, it was an airy space full of richly patterned rugs, with a fire blazing in the wide hearth and open windows that overlooked rows of the same low green trees outside of Kel’s window.

Lady Isra had returned her attention to Kel’s face. “I hope you can forgive my curiosity. You’re the first female squire I’ve met.”

“Of course.” Kel could hear the water boiling over the sound of the wind outside.

“You’re not precisely what I expected.”

At least she was polite about it; there was no look of suspicion or scorn upon her face, only one of cool interest. “What were you expecting, my lady?”

She paused, considering that. “I’m not entirely sure. Someone less ordinary, I suppose.” Her gaze passed over Kel’s dress uniform, taking in her purple velvet tunic and black hose. “Was it strange at first, having to don men’s clothes?”

Kel studied her, thinking of the few Bazhir women she had seen in Corus and Port Caynn, in their loose-fitting robes and the veils that encircled their eyes, concealing their hair and the lower half of their faces; in truth, Lady Isra wasn’t what she’d been expecting either. “No, my lady. But I was already used to wearing breeches at home.”

She nodded, not looking surprised by that. “Your home is in the northwest, I believe?”

“Yes, my lady. Near Trebond, and Seabeth and Seajen.” Kel watched the maid pour the tea into two glasses, leaves swirling in the golden liquid.

“Mindelan,” said Lady Isra thoughtfully, as she accepted a glass from her maid with a smile of thanks. “I suppose you’re related to Adalia of Mindelan, who recently married Lord Nond’s second son?”

“She’s one of my sisters.”

“Well!” she said, brightening at that. Kel smiled; she was used to people being impressed by how well Adie had married. Lady Isra took a cautious sip of her tea, and went on, “You’re fourteen? My youngest nephew isn’t much older — eighteen as of last month. He’s in the City of the Gods right now — he has a little magic, from his mother’s side of the family. You’re not already betrothed, are you?”

Kel blinked at her, startled and suddenly on her guard. The last time anyone had concerned themselves with her marriage prospects, it had been Joren, watching her test her fear of heights as a page on the palace curtain wall, and then asking her why she was doing it, why she was training to be a knight at all, and whether it was because someone had told her she had no chance of marrying. But Lady Isra wasn’t Joren, with his practiced courtier’s smile and eyes like cool hard stone. She reminded her more of Lord Alexander looking over the household accounts, like Kel was a figure to be added or subtracted, a problem to be solved.

“No, I’m not betrothed,” she replied. “I wanted my shield instead, and there wasn’t much left for my dowry anyway.” Better to be upfront about that in case Lady Isra got her hopes up, though Kel couldn’t imagine why she would. She took a sip of her tea and found it sweeter than she’d expected, with a cool green taste like mint.

“I’m surprised your parents agreed to let you train as a knight.”

“So was I, at first,” said Kel, partly to smooth things over between them, and partly because it was true: getting her mother to agree had involved a long, delicate negotiation.

“Of course, my parents gave _me_ a choice,” said Lady Isra, taking a longer sip of her tea, “when the late Lord Tirragen approached my father with the intent of striking up an alliance.” She offered Kel a small, conspiratorial smile. “My father offered the match to my older sister first, but she didn’t want to leave our tribe. I thought it sounded like an adventure.”

“Was it?” Kel’s oldest sister, Patricine, had decided to stay in the Yamani Islands, marrying a nobleman there and embracing a culture that wasn’t hers by birth. Kel hadn’t seen her in years.

Her smile grew a little wider, a little sadder. “Such things are never pure adventure, are they? I was terribly homesick for a while, and then I got used to being a northern lady. Which sounds very mundane in retrospect, but it didn’t feel that way at the time.”

“No,” agreed Kel, thinking of her first few months as a page, when she’d had nobody on her side but Neal and didn’t know how long she’d be allowed to stay.

“I was fortunate to marry into a big family, and that my lord’s brothers and sisters were kind to me.” She took another sip of her tea, looking Kel over again. “A woman who steps out of line makes a target of herself, and I didn’t experience as much of that as I might have.”

Kel nodded, understanding Lady Isra’s concern over her marriage prospects now, the offering up of her youngest nephew.

“My son has done you a disservice in some ways, I believe, by ensuring you remain in the public eye with his position at court.” She shook her head, smiling fondly, when Kel opened her mouth to protest. “He doesn’t really understand girls. Perhaps if he’d married, and had daughters of his own — but he seems to prefer his solitude.”

Kel suspected there were other reasons Lord Alexander hadn’t married, but she held her tongue.

“What you need,” said Lady Isra, “is more women on your side.”

She insisted on Kel sitting with the family at dinner, instead of serving them as she’d expected to. Still wearing her dress uniform and feeling somewhat out of place, Kel was seated on the dais between Sencha and her two oldest children. The boy’s eyes widened dramatically when he saw her approach.

“You’re _tall_ ,” he said, looking deeply impressed by this fact, as Lord Alexander stood to lead the household in a prayer to Mithros. “You’re taller than Uncle Alex. Do you have giant blood?”

“Corin!” Sencha hissed under her breath. “For shame. You’re not to bother Squire Keladry while she’s here. She has work to do.”

“Sorry, Mama. Do you have giant blood, though?” he asked Kel, after they sat down again.

“If I do, my parents neglected to mention it to me,” she replied, smiling at him.

“I’m going to be a knight,” Corin remarked. “But I don’t think I’m going to be very tall.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Kel saw one of the servants approach the dais with a finger bowl and towels. “When do you start your page training?”

“In two and a half years.”

“He’s seven,” explained his sister, who was seated on his other side. She pushed one long blonde braid over her shoulder, away from where the food was about to be. “He doesn’t know anything yet, really.”

During the first course she learned that Corin enjoyed his sword lessons and riding his pony, who was called Cabbage. His sister was called Gaylyah, though she usually went by Gayle, and she was nine; she preferred archery and helping her mother and great-aunt in the stillroom. They had a younger brother, Lucen, who was four and thus confined to the nursery. After telling her their life stories, they peppered Kel with questions about her page and squire training, which she did her best to answer in between bites.

The meal itself was good, especially after nearly two weeks on the road. It began with a thick stew made with quail and winter vegetables and poured over flatbread, proceeded to an egg soup that tasted too strongly of garlic for her liking, and then moved onto a main course with dishes of roast mutton and partridge in green sauce, where Kel found clear footing again.

“Usually we don’t eat this well,” Corin informed her cheerfully, midway through the soup course. “But this is a special occasion. Cook said there’s going to be cake later.”

The cake, when it arrived, was dark, sticky, and very sweet. It took a few bites before Kel realized what it reminded her of. She took a sip of barley water to clear the taste out of her mouth, while Gayle explained, “It’s made from dates. Cook showed me how to make the syrup once.”

There were no grand entertainments planned for the evening, after dinner was over, only a few servants who brought out instruments and began to sing a song in a language Kel didn’t know, accompanied by a pipe and drum. The tune was vaguely familiar; it stirred some memory of riding through Hill Country as a page.

“I’m going to bed,” said Lord Alexander after a while, rising from the bench with a yawn. “You can stay up as long as you like,” he told Kel, “but I’ll warn you — you’re getting up early tomorrow.”

She was exhausted, and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to find her way back to her bedroom on her own. Making her excuses to the rest of the family, she got up and followed him out of the great hall.

“What did my mother want with you?” he asked, when they were ascending the staircase in the central tower.

“To learn more about me, I think,” said Kel. “And to find out if I was interested in marrying her youngest nephew.”

Lord Alexander stopped abruptly, turned to look at her, shut his eyes briefly, and swore under his breath. “Mothers,” he said wearily, after opening his eyes again. “You’re under absolutely no obligation to marry any of my relatives, no matter what she tells you. I’ll have a word with her, if you like.”

“That’s all right, sir,” she replied, more amused than anything else. “I’d hate to be the cause of any conflict between you two.”

The next morning, Kel found herself back in the great hall, taking notes while Lord Alexander met with some of his tenants, those who had braved the climb after seeing him in the village the day before, or seeing from the banner waving over the castle ramparts that the lord of the fief was in residence.

She found this work more interesting than she’d expected to. As he had with the men he’d commanded during the spidren hunt, Lord Alexander listened far more than he talked, letting his tenants speak their piece before he made any decisions. They heard from farmers whose crops had failed due to drought or blight, merchants who were unhappy with new taxes or rising prices, shepherds whose animals were being preyed upon by bandits or hill lions. There were problems here she had never given much thought to before, though surely they were faced by people all over the realm; and she didn’t think she could have come up with many good answers herself, if put on the spot. But her knight-master listened, weighed his options, and then offered his people something: men-at-arms, stores of food bought from elsewhere in the realm, or a promise to discuss some matter with the king.

In the afternoon, she practiced her weapons with Lord Alexander and the children, who had begged her to join their archery lesson. The archery targets were set in a low-lying courtyard with a view of the snow-capped Tusaine Mountains to the east. A few times, Kel found herself glancing toward the mountains, distracted by the urge to saddle her horses and get back on the road, just to see what was beyond them for herself.

Halfway through the lesson, while the archery master was correcting Gayle’s stance, Corin drew his arm back at the wrong angle. When he released his arrow, the bowstring grazed his ear. His wail split the quiet afternoon; Gayle’s arrow went wide.

“Stop that!” called Lord Alexander, who was watching them from the sidelines with his youngest cousin, Lucen, and the boy’s nursemaid.

Corin gazed up at him, his mouth trembling and his cheeks streaked with tears. His ear was bright red, but the skin hadn’t broken.

Lord Alexander frowned at him, but when he spoke again, his voice was a little kinder. “Who’s going to fear a warrior who cries when he gets hurt? Just pretend you don’t feel anything, and show that target who’s in charge here.”

He was right, thought Kel, as she loosed another arrow. Lord Wyldon wouldn’t react very well to a page who cried during combat practice. Still, Corin was only seven, and she thought it would be better to distract him than to bark at him. “Here,” she whispered, showing him the correct way to draw his bow. “Practice that a few times, without the arrows, until you know the feel of it in your bones. Keep your elbow out a little more,” she added, when he copied her. “Count to ten, relax, and then try it again.”

When she glanced over at him again, her knight-master was watching them. It was hard to tell at this distance, but she thought the expression on his face was a thoughtful one.

The next morning, over breakfast, Lord Alexander told her to pack for a day’s ride and saddle their riding mounts as soon as she was done eating. “If we’re going to plant more olive trees this year,” he said, gesturing with a piece of flatbread drizzled with honey, “Mikal and I need to agree on where we’re going to put them before we have to rejoin the Grand Progress. And I want to see how the harvest was this winter.”

An hour later they rode away from the castle, wearing light armor and heavy cloaks to keep off the wind. “There is one thing that’s never been in short supply at Tirragen,” Lord Alexander told her, as they passed through the outer wall and onto the road leading down to the village. “And that’s rocks.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Sir?”

One corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Our little family joke. Do we have water? Look to your left, and you can admire the great shallow puddle that bears our name. Noble blood? I’ve already explained to Corin that despite our name being writ in the Book of Gold — the last page of the book, mind you, but nevertheless it’s there — he’s going to have to put up with the other pages calling him a hill barbarian until he proves himself. Money? Money is land, and land is something our family has in spades, thanks to King Jasson extending the border east and doubling the size of our fief.”

He extended his arm, gesturing to the hills spread out before them to the northeast. Amidst the wildflowers and hardy green shrubs, Kel could see patches of thin, dusty soil and bare, red rock. The path curved, and the redder, more barren hills further south came into view. “Behold my treasure, squire. Miles upon miles of rocks. It would take days of riding to cover them all. You’re lucky I’ve decided to spare you the extended tour.”

Riding south along the edge of the lake took them into low hills lined with the short green trees she had seen from her bedroom window. Up close, she saw that they were olive trees, stretching for miles in all directions. Shiro leapt down from the leather carrier on her saddle to run alongside the horses, enjoying the sunshine.

“Olives like chalky soil,” Lord Alexander explained as they rode along. “That’s why we grow them south of the lake, closer to the desert.”

Kel glanced around, and caught a glimpse of rolling sand dunes off in the distance. “It’s not far at all.”

“No, it isn’t. Less than an hour’s ride to the border.”

His mother might not have had to travel for more than a few hours for everything about her life to change. Kel studied him for a moment in the morning light, taking in his helm and cloak, his shield and saddle: everything that marked him as the lord of a northern fief. All around them, the uniform rows of olive trees stretched onward. “Where do you grow the dates?” she asked, remembering the sticky cake from two nights ago.

“Ah,” he said, brightening. “Those grow better closer to the water, where there’s more loam in the soil. I’m sure you saw grapes and wheat when we rode south — we grow those along the river, where the soil is richer.”

“I remember the wheat.” The route of the Grand Progress had taken them along the edge of Tortall’s central grain lands; she remembered looking west and seeing a vast green expanse of winter wheat, and more wheat fields along the River Tirragen.

“We don’t grow as much of it as some of our neighbors do. The grapes are in the hills east of the river; I’ll point them out on the way to Fief Eldorne. If you’re interested in farming,” he added, “you should really talk to Mikal. That’s more his forte than mine.”

The morning was a cold one, with a brisk wind that whistled between the low trees, but the sky was clear and the sun was bright. After nearly an hour of riding, they heard a distant horn call split the air. Lord Alexander frowned. “Lion, from the sound of it.”

“I think it came from the northeast, sir.”

“I’d say you’re right,” he replied. “I doubt we’ll run into it.”

He led her to the eastern boundary of the olive groves, where the ground was rockier. Her sparrows settled in the trees around them as Lord Alexander dismounted to examine the soil, frowning thoughtfully to himself.

Kel joined him, glad for a chance to stretch her legs and look around. To the east, jagged rock formations began to rise out of the earth, gleaming red in the morning light. “Do you know what causes these, my lord?” she asked, when he went to retrieve his water bottle from his saddle. She gestured toward the nearest rock formation, a towering structure that looked, at first glance, a bit like a misshapen tree that someone had turned to pale reddish stone. Perhaps one of the gods had done it, long ago.

He took a swig of water, studying it. “Erosion, I believe. When it rains in Hill Country, it often pours. Washes the soil away from the rock. Over time it carves the rock itself.” Then he frowned, looking puzzled by something. “Hello, what’s this?”

Kel turned. Beyond the edge of the trees stood a lone goat. It stared back at them for a moment, and then began hunting around for vegetation.

“Someone has wandered away from his master,” said Lord Alexander. “Wait here a moment.” He drew his sword and walked away, past the lone goat to where the land fell away steeply. After a moment, he vanished behind a rocky outcrop.

She stood there in silence for a few minutes, the hair prickling on the back of her neck. They weren’t anywhere near the River Hasteren, where she and her fellow pages had fought bandits two and a half years back, but some of those red cliffs in the distance looked too familiar for comfort. The weight of her armor was a comfort to her, as were the weapons and shield secured to her saddle, and her sparrows perched watchfully in the trees.

Lord Alexander reappeared, the sunlight glinting off his helm. “There are more goats up ahead,” he said quietly, after returning to her side. “No sign of the goatherd, which is odd. I did hear men’s voices, but voices often carry around here.”

“What kind of terrain?” asked Kel. “Is that a cliff down there?”

He nodded. “A ravine. The goats were on higher ground just beyond that rock,” he said, gesturing to the one that had reminded her of a tree.

Kel looked up at Crown, who had lighted on a branch just above her head. “Crown? Do you think you could find the goatherd? They might be in trouble. They’ll be about my age at most,” she guessed, and glanced at Lord Alexander.

He nodded. “Probably younger.”

There came a sound from up ahead, barely audible over the wind, like a stone falling from a high place. “Rockfall, from the ravine?” she asked quietly, as the sparrows took flight.

He frowned. “Maybe.” He took hold of Halberd’s reins, leading him forward, and motioned for her to follow as quietly as she could.

The sparrows returned before they were halfway to the ravine, flying a tight loop around Lord Alexander. He froze, frowning at Kel, as Crown lighted on her shoulder and peeped loudly in her ear, six times. “Six men, I think, sir,” she murmured.

“Men? No animals?”

Crown was silent. Then a horn sounded from up ahead, where the ground rose toward red cliffs. The silence that followed seemed especially loud. Kel could hear no horses, nothing to suggest that any Tirragen men-at-arms had heard the horn call and were coming to help. They were probably off hunting the hill lion from earlier. Then she heard another stone fall, and another. They weren’t falling in the ravine, she realized: someone was throwing rocks.

Lord Alexander sheathed his sword and swung into the saddle, as there came a second horn blast from up ahead. “We may yet have the element of surprise,” he said quietly. “String your bow, but keep your sword or polearm close at hand. Pick off as many men as you can from a distance, as soon as you have a clear shot. Ride at my command.”

Kel wished she had Peachblossom with her, as she braced one end of her bow against her boot to string it. Then she tried to cheer herself. It would do her no good wishing for something she couldn’t have. Kasumi didn’t have Peachblossom’s weight, and she hadn’t been trained primarily for battle, but neither would she balk at a fight. Nor would Lord Alexander’s Halberd. And Kel trusted her knight-master not to lead her into a situation that would get them all killed.

“Now,” he said, nudging his gelding into a gallop. She followed, speeding after him toward the rocky outcrop.

Beyond it lay a narrow plateau with the ravine on one side and the base of a cliff on the other, a flat rocky place just broad enough for a fight. Half a dozen men — thin, ragged, and armed — had gathered there, advancing toward the goats ascending the red cliff. Hearing horses, they stopped and turned to face the sound.

A face peered out from the shadows of a ridge halfway up the cliff: the goatherd. She was a girl of about ten, tan and wiry, crouching before what might have been a cave. She lifted the horn to her mouth again, and Kel caught a glimpse of blood running down her arm. From the look of it, an arrow or bolt had grazed her shoulder.

One of the men raised a crossbow. Kel nocked an arrow and took aim. He moved, and her first shot went wide, a bolt whistling past her ear; her second arrow hit him squarely in the throat. There was a thud as one of the men beside him dropped, Lord Alexander’s arrow in his eye.

That left a second archer with a recurve bow, as well as two men armed with axes and one with a battered sword. Kel lay another arrow against her bowstring, aiming for the archer. Her arrow caught him in the chest; Shiro raced past her to finish him off, sparrows trailing him like a war banner.

Lord Alexander had drawn his longsword. He rode at the swordsman among the bandits, as Kel unstrapped her glaive. The bandit closest to her raised his axe, chopping down at her horse; Kel swept her glaive in to block him. As she slid her blade free of his, Kasumi turned. Kel moved with her, thrusting her glaive forward to run the man through.

As her horse spun away from the body, Kel saw her knight-master’s foe lying dead in the dirt, and the last surviving bandit kneeling before Halberd. He had laid his axe on the ground before him, as though offering it to Lord Alexander. Lord Alexander leaned forward in his saddle, listening to him. He had lifted his visor, his face impassive under it.

“— second year in a row our crops have failed, milord,” the bandit was saying, his head bowed. He was near forty, with touches of gray in his auburn beard and close-cropped hair, and he looked as though he had once been a bigger man, before falling on hard times. “There’s been naught to eat, and curst little water. Then the brushfires took near half the village this past autumn.”

“Do you think you’re the only one to go hungry in Hill Country?” asked Lord Alexander, his voice mild.

“No, milord, of course not. We knew it was wrong to resort to poaching, only we were desperate.”

Desperate enough to rob those who had as little as them, thought Kel, who had never liked songs that romanticized bandits and highwaymen. Desperate enough to attempt to kill a child for her goats. She had managed to feel some measure of sympathy for Enno, whose life had taken a similar turn, but to her knowledge, he had never harmed any children.

She glanced up at the goatherd, who glared down at them from her rock, still clutching her sling and her horn, as though the girl trusted Lord Alexander and Kel as little as she trusted the bandits. She would need the attention of a healer soon, thought Kel. In the distance, beyond the cliff, she saw Stormwings circling like carrion birds, drawing nearer.

“What village?” asked Lord Alexander.

“Sowthistle. It’s east of here, in the hills near the River Drell,” he added, his eyes fixed on Lord Alexander’s shield.

“Why did you not petition me?”

“We sent a runner to the castle, milord, when the village was burning. The steward sent us a squad of men to help. But it’s a full day there and back, so most of the time it’s hard to spare anyone from farming and trapping. And the true lord is never at home, anyway,” he added, narrowing his eyes at him.

They were both silent for a moment, staring at each other, the only sound that of the wind whistling between the bare rocks. Kel saw Lord Alexander draw back slightly, as though the man had struck him, and then raise his eyebrows. “Is that what you were about today? Trapping?”

Under normal circumstances, the lord of a fief wouldn’t personally deal with bandits. Typically they were tried and sentenced by the magistrate in the nearest town large enough to have one, who was appointed by the local landowner. This man had killed no one in this fight, so unless he was found to be guilty of killing in a previous raid, a magistrate would likely give him a choice of the mines or the quarries. Kel glanced around her, and saw no hint of a town or even a village anywhere nearby: no smoke rising from chimneys or forges, no wagon ruts in the road, no sound at all save for the wind. This was barren country, hours from the river and the larger towns that lay along it.

Lord Alexander gazed up at the goatherd, frowning slightly. “The laws are plain,” he said after a moment, turning back to face the kneeling bandit again. “Under the king’s law, theft of an animal is punishable by death.”

Kel fought to hide her surprise. That was an old law, rarely enforced anymore, and the man had _surrendered_ to him. Lord Alexander glanced at her, and shook his head warningly.

“We didn’t steal any goats,” replied the bandit, but she could tell by his slumped shoulders that he had expected the sentence.

“No? You told me just a minute ago that you knew it was wrong to resort to poaching. That was an admission of guilt, and in addition, you wounded a goatherd. Wouldn’t you have killed her, if we hadn’t come along? You were six grown men, against one girl and her goats.”

The man on the ground opened his mouth, as if to say something else, and then closed it.

“Kel, go and see if you can coax the goatherd down from that rock.”

If he was trying to spare her from having to watch the execution, she didn’t want it. “My lord,” she began, without a clear idea of what she meant to say next. She knew it was his right to sentence criminals as he saw fit on his own land, but she hated the sentence and wanted him to know it. And she didn’t want him coddling her.

“The girl needs a healer,” he explained, not unkindly. “She’s losing blood. I don’t want her falling off the rock and adding to her injuries.”

Clenching her jaw so hard it hurt, Kel dismounted and led Kasumi toward the cliff. Letting the reins hang, to signal to her horse that she was meant to wait there, she began to climb. She may have lost her acute fear of heights, but that didn’t mean she had come to enjoy climbing. She ascended the steep hill slowly, taking care to place her feet on the rocks and patches of packed earth that looked most secure, as the wind plucked at her clothes. There was a crude path, narrow and often broken by places where she had to scramble up the rock on all fours.

Once she made a mistake, on one of the steeper parts of the ascent, and one of her handholds came loose. After that, she clung for a few moments to the side of the cliff, heart pounding, before she could make herself climb any further. Somewhere below her, she could hear her knight-master saying something to the bandit, but it was difficult to hear what over the wind.

She reached the goatherd without further incident. The girl shrank away from her, a rock in her hand. Her dark eyes were wide, her face ashen.

“I’m here to help,” Kel told her. From behind her, she heard the distant sound of a blade slicing through flesh and bone, and the dull thud of something hitting the ground. The goatherd glanced past her, and then returned her gaze warily to Kel’s face.

She took a step back, raising the hand with the rock, and said something in a language Kel didn’t know. She might have heard songs sung in it, from Eda Bell or one of Lord Alexander’s servants; she didn’t know. It might have been a dialect of Bazhir; some of the words sounded similar. Kel had learned standard Bazhir in her classes, or at least enough to manage a basic conversation in it, but she couldn’t understand anything the girl had said. Whatever it was, it sounded like a threat.

“I’m sorry,” said Kel, as soothingly as she could. She took a step closer, hunching down to make herself seem smaller. “But we need to get you to a healer, so you have to climb down from here.”

The goatherd threw the rock at her. Kel dodged it, so it only grazed her cheek instead of striking her in the eye.

Common Eastern didn’t seem to be working. Kel repeated what she had said in her clumsy Bazhir, wishing that she’d studied up on the language more since finishing her page training. Not letting her finish, the girl lunged down for another rock and hurled it at her. Kel dodged again. The rock struck her shoulder, making a dull metallic sound where it hit her mail.

Someone was coming. She wasn’t about to take her eyes off the goatherd, but she could hear someone climbing up the cliff behind her, much faster than she’d managed the ascent. Then she heard her knight-master’s voice, pitched so they could hear it over the rising wind. He was saying something in the same language the goatherd had spoken.

The girl relaxed, her shoulders dropping slightly. Kel risked a glance to the side, in time to see Lord Alexander lift himself onto the rock beside her. He got to his feet and said something else to the girl softly, his eyes fixed on hers.

The goatherd hesitated, and then asked him a question. He answered it, extending his arm as if to beckon her forward. She glanced suspiciously at Kel, and then crept toward him. Kel stepped back to let them talk, taking care to keep away from the edge of the cliff.

Whatever language they were speaking, she had the sense that Lord Alexander wasn’t quite fluent in it. His halting questions and replies seemed to comfort the girl, though. After a few minutes he put his hand on her unhurt shoulder and squeezed, smiling encouragingly. She passed him her horn and sling.

“She says she can climb down from here one-armed,” he told Kel, switching to Common. “I don’t doubt it. Hill children younger than her can scale cliffs twice as high as this with their eyes closed.”

Kel shuddered. “How close is the nearest village, my lord?”

“About three miles east of here, as the Stormwing flies. If I recall correctly, it’s barely a village.”

She watched uneasily as the goatherd began to climb down the rocky incline. The younger girl’s face was ashen and her jaw was clenched, but in the moment before she disappeared from view, Kel saw no fear in her eyes.

Lord Alexander passed her the horn and sling. “I’m going with her, and I’d like you to stay here. Someone needs to look after the goats.”

She raised her eyebrows. What she knew of herding goats could fit into a thimble. “Up here, my lord?”

“No, you’d better stay with Kasumi. The goats can stay up here, if you can’t coax them down. See if you can round up the ones who wandered off. Falisa has agreed to loan you her horn and sling,” he added, the corner of his mouth twitching upward into a smile, “but only if you take very good care of them.”

With that, he began to climb down after the goatherd. Kel glanced worriedly up the cliff to where most of the goats had gathered, and then turned back to watch Lord Alexander lift the girl onto his riding mount’s back. He swung up into the saddle behind her and nudged Halberd into a walk.

The bandit who had surrendered lay dead on the ground near the base of the cliff. His head had been placed neatly beside him, though she doubted it would stay that way for long. Stormwings had begun to descend amidst the bodies to desecrate them, calling mockingly to Lord Alexander as he rode past.

Kel glanced around. A few feet from the edge of the cliff, the goatherd had gathered a pile of stones. Kel helped herself to them, hurling stones at the Stormwings until they retreated. Only when they were gone did she feel comfortable climbing down to round up the wandering goats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took a turn. When it comes to systems of governance, maybe it isn't the best idea to let one dude be the judge, jury, and executioner for an entire fief just because he has the biggest house? Food for thought.
> 
> A lot of this chapter is about farming and toxic masculinity, so I should probably add that I don't know anything about agriculture (or goats, for that matter). In real life, I've killed literally every houseplant I've ever had. I googled a few crops and called it a day.


	14. Bread and Tournaments

Two hours later, Lord Alexander returned with a small boy riding behind him. “Falisa’s brother,” he explained to Kel as the boy scrambled down from the saddle. “He’s going to take over with the goats.”

She was glad to hand the goatherd’s horn and sling over to the boy. “How is she?”

“She’s resting now,” her knight-master replied. “There was a midwife in the village with enough general healing magic to mend her shoulder.”

Kel was relieved to hear it. It had been a long two hours, with only her animals and the corpses for company, as well as the unruly goats and the occasional carrion bird, wild rock dove, or Stormwing. After everything that had happened that day, she was very glad to learn that Falisa had made it to a healer without incident.

Overhead, a Stormwing soared in lazy circles over their small battlefield. Narrowing her eyes, Kel reached for her longbow again, as Lord Alexander raised his eyebrows. She nocked an arrow and took aim. “What next, my lord?” she asked, her gaze fixed on the Stormwing.

“I’d thought we would ride on. It’s getting late in the day, and I wanted to learn more about how the olive harvest was this year.”

The Stormwing flipped her tail feathers up at Kel in a mocking salute, before wheeling to the north and out of range. Kel lowered her bow, frowning.

“You disagree?”

“I think we should light a funeral pyre,” she replied, turning to meet his eyes. While he was gone, after tending to Kasumi and her weapons, she had moved the bodies to make one, but had decided not to light it until he returned. She had seen him notice it as he’d ridden over to her, glancing at the stack of bodies and frowning slightly. “We killed these men; we ought to take responsibility for them now. And their bodies lie close enough to that ravine that the next hard rain could wash them into it, and bring sickness to anyone living downstream from here.”

Lord Alexander dismounted and began rummaging in his saddlebags for his weapons cleaning kit. “You disagreed with the sentence I gave Selby — the man who surrendered.”

Kel blinked at him, surprised. She hadn’t heard him ask the man his name; it must have happened while she was climbing the cliff. “He surrendered, my lord,” she said simply.

“I didn’t let you speak, at the time. I regret that.” He drew his sword and sat down on a rock to give it a more thorough cleaning than he’d been able to in the wake of the execution.

She wondered if he regretted the execution. “I understand why you didn’t, my lord,” she said, getting out Halberd’s currycomb, brush, and hoof pick to give herself something to do with her hands.

He made a soft, noncommittal noise. “No dissent among the ranks. Even so . . . You didn’t agree with the sentence. What would you have had me do instead?”

The king had asked her the same question, the morning after the trial: _What would you have me do?_ There was something a little eerie about the repetition, the sense of returning to this moment again. Still, she knew how the law was meant to work. “Arrest him, and have him tried before a magistrate.”

Lord Alexander smiled faintly. “You understand, I’m sure, how difficult that would have been logistically, especially with the injured goatherd to return to her people.”

“I understand, sir. That doesn’t change the fact that it’s what you should have done.”

For an instant she worried that she’d overstepped her bounds there, but he didn’t react. “The nearest town with a magistrate is an hour’s ride from here, in the opposite direction from Falisa’s village,” he pointed out, his voice mild. “And that’s without making an unwilling man walk behind your horse, and assuming you aren’t attacked by his friends or family. But let’s say I had taken him to the nearest magistrate. What then?”

Kel frowned. She knew a leading question when she heard it. “He would have been tried and sentenced, sir. Likely to the quarries or the mines.”

He nodded. “Lord Shaila is always looking for criminals to labor in his salt mine.” He was silent for a moment, raising his sword to examine the blade in the sunlight. “Kel, have you ever _seen_ a salt mine? Do you know what it’s like to labor in one?”

“No, sir,” she said quietly.

He was frowning at a nick on the blade. “A great deal of what we call justice is really more about punishment, or a desire for cheaper labor. We work within a system that’s — imperfect, to say the least.”

At first that struck her as rather cynical. But he didn’t say anything else for a few minutes, and she let the silence settle over them, heavy and uncomfortable, recalling her own outrage upon hearing that the men who had kidnapped Lalasa would have their sentences reduced for providing testimony. She had wanted them laboring for more than fifteen years, not less, though she’d known that few people sentenced to hard labor lived for more than eight years; she had wanted them to be punished. “What would real justice be, then?” she asked, thinking of how much it had felt like he’d been answering a personal insult when he had executed Selby. Even if he hadn’t been angry enough to want to kill him, he might have felt he had to save face, as a nobleman.

Lord Alexander didn’t look up from his work. “Sometimes I really don’t know. Not in the field, at least, where you have to make quick decisions about complex problems. You may look back on some of those decisions later and find you regret them.”

She nodded. “I understand, sir.”

He smiled, a little sadly. “I’m not sure you can, really, until you know what it’s like firsthand.” He ran the polishing cloth over his blade, making it gleam in the sunlight.

There was something she needed to hear him say aloud. “My lord,” she began, “I _have_ seen executions before.”

He glanced up. “I would have been surprised if you hadn’t. There was more work to be done, Kel — I wasn’t trying to spare your tender feelings.”

She nodded, relieved, and went back to grooming Halberd.

Evidently satisfied with the state of his longsword, Lord Alexander sheathed it and began to put away his weapons cleaning kit. “You know, my father used to mount the heads of bandits and poachers on the castle walls, as a warning to others.”

Kel raised her eyebrows. That spoke of an old-fashioned sense of justice; it was the kind of practice associated with lords in history books, or foreign tyrants. And Tirragen Castle was situated on a hill, which would make it difficult to see heads mounted on the ramparts from the ground. “Did that work?”

“I think it kept the servants in line,” he replied. “And those heads certainly spooked me when I was a child.”

She glanced toward her funeral pyre, remembering what she had seen of Selby’s final moments. He had been close to Lord Alexander’s age, old enough to remember the previous lord and his justice. Had he surrendered to find out whether Lord Alexander was a different kind of man from his father, or because he’d simply seen no other option?

“I have no plans to return to how things were done in my father’s day,” said Lord Alexander, glancing in the same direction. “But nor do I have any plans to inadvertently start a brushfire. It may be the rainy season, but fires spread quickly in Hill Country, especially when the wind is high. And we’re too close to the olive trees for comfort.”

Kel blinked. That hadn’t occurred to her. “Are olive trees very flammable?”

His expression darkened, like clouds passing over the winter sun. “You have no idea. I won’t risk people’s lives, homes, crops, or livestock for a funeral pyre for bandits. And you heard what Selby said, about brushfires taking half his village — a fire can be what leads someone to crime.” He studied her face for a moment, his expression softening slightly. “But — you’re not wrong about taking responsibility, nor about that ravine. I’ll organize a burial detail after we return to the castle.”

She nodded.

“And I won’t stop you from praying for their spirits, if it would ease your mind.”

She attempted a smile. “I’ll do that.”

To her surprise, he joined her beside the bodies. She had nearly finished her brief prayer by then, so she heard his clearly. “Black God have mercy on you all,” he said, a hint of steel in his voice, and then he hesitated. “Keirnun watch over you, Danya guide you onward, and Morni lift her hand from you. I don’t know what gods they worshiped,” he added, when Kel glanced inquiringly at him.

“Who are the ones you named?” she asked softly. It seemed wrong to speak too loudly at that moment. In the quiet, she heard the sound of wings and glanced up, expecting to see her sparrows there or find that some of the carrion birds had returned. Instead she saw a pair of rock doves gazing down at them from the ledge where Falisa had taken shelter.

“Hill Country gods. Keirnun is the lord of the storm gods, who are all brothers, and Danya and Morni are his wives. The story goes that Keirnun poured the eastern hills into being out of his cauldron — or crucible, the word is the same in Hurdik — and Danya provided the water to cool them, and then Morni came dancing out of the steam.”

She didn’t remember Eda Bell telling them that story around the campfire, when the pages had ridden through Hill Country two summers ago. “That was Hurdik you were speaking earlier, wasn’t it? When you were trying to coax Falisa down from the cliff.”

He nodded. “My nurse taught me some when I was a child, and it was useful to learn more after I inherited the fief. Everyone here understands Common Eastern to some degree, but I’ve found that people are usually more comfortable with you if you can speak their native tongue.”

“I didn’t think many people spoke Hurdik nowadays,” she said, as he turned away from the bodies. She followed him back toward the horses.

“They do in more rural areas, despite my grandfather’s best efforts. It made his ears hurt, or so he said,” he explained when she glanced at him. “He wouldn’t hear petitions in it, with or without a translator. If you wanted to conduct business with him or any of his agents, including the magistrates, you had to do it in Common Eastern. No religious services in Hurdik either, nor songs.” He mounted his riding horse, and then added, “My father was more lenient, but even in his day, they used to flog the temple school students caught speaking it.”

She caught the dark implication in that reference to magistrates: that there were people who had been tried and sentenced, perhaps to death, in a language not their own. “That was a brave thing your nurse did,” she said, as she mounted Kasumi.

Lord Alexander glanced back at her. “It was. It took me a long time to realize that. You’ve met Eska, actually — she’s Corin and Lucen’s nurse now.”

An image came to mind: a small, stocky woman with brown hair starting to turn gray, bouncing a sleepy Lucen on her hip at the edge of the archery yard. Kel had exchanged greetings with her when they’d passed each other in the castle corridors, without knowing anything of her life or history. She was only sixty or so; she would have been young when she’d first come to the castle, to look after Lord Alexander.

As they rode away, Kel glanced back toward the bodies stacked at the base of the red cliff. There was an echo of her skirmish by the River Hasteren in the sight of them; she hadn’t felt so ambivalent then. She saw a few crows descend, while overhead the Stormwings began to circle closer, before turning away to watch the path ahead of her.

They had been at Fief Tirragen for nearly a week and a half when a messenger arrived with a letter from the king. It was a very brief letter. Lord Alexander read it over breakfast, murmuring an apology to his assembled family members, and then he grinned. “Roger’s getting fed up with me,” he remarked. “Time to go slinking back with my tail between my legs. We’re to rejoin the progress at Fief Eldorne today.”

To Kel’s surprise, his mother joined them. She was good friends with Lady Eldorne, Kel learned, despite the reported feud between their families. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen Emelina,” she explained, as they rode out through the castle gates, with her maid and a squad of men-at-arms in tow. “And I ought to pay my respects to the king and queen while they’re here.”

Fief Eldorne was half a day’s ride to the north, past the lake and the vast fields beyond it, now green with winter wheat. As the day wore on into afternoon, they rode through hills adorned with rows of dormant grapevines. “These are mine,” said Lord Alexander, the first words he’d spoken in over half an hour. “You can tell because they are humble. Eldorne wine is famously overrated.”

“He’s being absurd,” said Lady Isra to Kel in an undertone. “It’s more or less the same wine. Ours is usually a little more dry, and theirs a little earthier and sweeter — that’s all.”

It was late afternoon before they reached the boundary of Fief Eldorne. Sunlight spilled golden over the fields of grapevines that lined the road north; to the east the hills climbed gradually toward the mountains, their heights adorned with almond trees. To the west the River Tirragen flowed north toward the Olorun, glinting in the sunlight, its banks lined with green fields. If Lord Alexander hadn’t pointed out the border to her, Kel wouldn’t have realized they had left his lands.

Like her knight-master’s castle, Eldorne Castle crowned the top of a hill. It was a more gentle rise than the one that overlooked Lake Tirragen, and this time of year it was carpeted with greenery and yellow wildflowers. At the base of the hill sprawled the camp where the majority of the Grand Progress was housed.

Lord Alexander released the men-at-arms there, giving them leave to return to their patrol of his lands, and then went to speak with the Lord Seneschal. While they were talking, Kel gazed around. To the west, beyond the tents, she could see the tournament grounds; from that direction came the sound of thundering hooves. Evidently they had arrived in the middle of a joust. “We’re late,” Lady Isra observed with a faint smile. “I hope His Majesty isn’t too cross with Alex.”

After a few minutes, Lord Alexander returned to them, shaking his head. “No luck getting a place in the camp. We’re to proceed straight up to the castle, where there’s a suite of rooms all ready for us.”

Kel smiled. She could have told him that.

Lady Isra’s eyebrows rose. “You would have subjected your own mother to a place in the camp?”

“Not you,” he assured her. “Never you. But I would have been more comfortable there.”

The road to the castle spiraled slowly up the hill, offering views of the surrounding countryside. The climb was gradual enough that she could gaze out at Fief Eldorne without feeling a shiver of unease at the height. After about half an hour, they reached the outer wall of the castle, which gleamed like fire in the light of the sinking sun. Overhead, banners snapped in the chill wind. There was one with a silver sword and crown on a blue field, indicating that the king was in residence; beside it was a banner showing a green serpent on a white field. Lord Alexander nodded to the latter as they passed, saying, “Behold the Eldorne arms, squire: a snake in the grass.”

Within the castle walls it was quiet, perhaps because everyone else was at the base of the hill watching the jousting. As Kel dismounted and began to collect the horses’ reins, Lord Alexander said, “You can let the hostlers care for them. I’d prefer to get out of this armor and into a bath as soon as —”

Hearing footsteps, Kel turned and saw Thom of Trebond striding toward them, smiling broadly. “ _There_ you are. Thank the gods. Roger got lonely in your absence and started pestering _me_ for company instead.”

Lord Alexander frowned. “How did you know I was here? Did you place some kind of magical tracker on me?”

Thom’s eyes went wide with mock surprise. “Of course not,” he said, one hand over his heart. “That would be a breach of your privacy.”

Kel resisted the urge to reach for the pendant under her tunic, remembering how he had found her on Balor’s Needle.

“You certainly took your time returning to us, you wicked boy,” Thom went on teasingly, as Lord Alexander’s face reddened. “Shame on you. The king’s getting absolutely unbearable without you around to drag him away for an hour of sword practice every so often. Always wanting to talk about books or magical theory, or gossip about the nobility, and you _know_ he never sleeps, and he knows I never sleep, so it’s a constant assault. Between you and me, I think he and Lady Melantha are on the outs. She isn’t distracting him when she should be, and he only scowls at me when I mention her.”

“Thom,” said Lord Alexander through gritted teeth, “have you met my mother?” His posture was as rigid as Kel had ever seen it.

Thom turned, regarded Lady Isra impassively for a moment, and then bowed over her hand. “Enchanted, my lady.”

“This is Thom of Trebond. Advisor to the king.”

“I’ve heard quite a lot about you,” said Lady Isra, gazing at him with open curiosity.

Thom rose from his bow. “Not all of it bad, I hope.”

She laughed. Kel caught Lord Alexander’s eye, and he nodded stiffly. She led the horses away, keeping Peachblossom apart from the others as best she could. After leaving them with the hostlers, she made her way up to the suite set aside for their party, with Shiro padding along beside her. The sitting room door was open when she reached it, and she could hear Lord Thom’s voice emanating from it.

“— absolutely nothing to do in Whitethorn,” he was saying, as Kel slipped into the room. He lounged on a settee near the fireplace, with Lady Isra seated in a chair across from him, listening with interest. “Though there was an archery tournament you might have enjoyed, Alex. Some insufferable young bruiser from Fief Rosemark won, and then drank so much in the aftermath that he passed out in a trash heap behind the kitchen.”

Lord Alexander stood beside one of the windows, gazing out at the golden hills beyond the castle wall. He had removed his helm and gauntlets, though he still wore the rest of his mail. Kel went to help him with it, as Thom continued, “His betrothed was so worried about him that she called the watch. Evidently she thought one of the losers of the tournament had murdered him. He was still drunk when the watch found him; he tried to fight them off. Can you believe we have two full years of this nonsense to enjoy?” he added, turning to Lady Isra.

“There’s a bath in your room,” Lord Alexander told Kel quietly, as she helped him out of his hauberk. “One of the chambermaids drew it not ten minutes ago, so the water should still be warm.”

“You’re ignoring me,” said Thom. “I’ve upset you terribly by befriending your mother.”

“It’s been a long ride,” said Lord Alexander. “I think we’d all like a bath and a nap right now.”

Judging by the way Thom’s eyes lit up at that, his mouth pursing with amusement before he moved his hand to cover it, he had thought of some clever retort and then thought better of it.

“Thank you, Kel,” said Lord Alexander, as she removed the last of his armor. “You can wait an hour or so before you lay out my clothes for the banquet.”

Thom watched him go into his bedroom and shut the door. “There goes an obstinate man. Well, if he doesn’t want company at the moment, I suppose I’ll see you all later this evening.”

“He’s certainly entertaining,” Lady Isra remarked after he had left the room. “It’s so interesting to meet people you’ve only read about in letters.” She rose from her chair in a graceful sweep of skirts.

“Do you get a lot of letters from the capital, my lady?” asked Kel.

“A fair number,” she replied, making her way toward her own bedroom. “It’s so quiet in our little corner of the world. I like to know what’s going on elsewhere.”

To Kel’s dismay, Lord Alexander was seated on the dais that evening, with the royal family. Before ascending the steps with her finger bowl and towels, she sent up a quick prayer to Mithros and the Goddess that she wouldn’t disgrace herself, her knight-master, and her family, and then added the Hill Country gods to her prayer, to be safe. This was, after all, their domain.

“You’ll compete in the fencing tournament tomorrow, I trust?” she heard the king say to Lord Alexander as she approached.

“Of course, sire.”

Kel offered the finger bowl to Roger, her heartbeat so loud she could hear it over the musicians in one of the galleries overlooking the great hall. It didn’t seem to matter how many times she was in the same room with the king; she still felt dizzy serving him in front of his court. “Thank you, Keladry,” he said, smiling up at her. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

“Trying to miss the tournament, were you?” said the man seated beside the king, who must have been Lord Eldorne. “Starting to get old and slow?”

Kel glanced at him. He was in his early sixties, a powerfully built man dressed in green velvet with a shock of steel gray hair and a craggy face. On the king’s other side, the queen’s lips pursed as though she were trying not to laugh.

Lord Alexander didn’t react. “We were unavoidably delayed,” he said, shrugging one shoulder.

“Busy stealing water from your neighbors, no doubt, while we were making merry here on my coin.”

The queen covered her mouth with her hand. “Father, please. Truly, Alex, we’re glad you arrived.”

“Delighted to be here,” he murmured. “So good of you to feed your guests, Helier.”

Kel moved along the table, offering her finger bowl to each of the diners in turn, and then fled back to the serving room. In the doorway, she encountered Cleon, who nearly dropped a jug of wine when he saw her. “Kel!” he said, his face reddening. “I didn’t realize you’d rejoined the progress.”

“The king sent Lord Alexander a stern letter,” she replied, puzzled. “How’s everyone else? I haven’t seen Neal yet.” The serving room had been crowded when they’d first mustered for duty, and she’d only had the chance to talk to Jasson and Seaver.

Whatever had startled him, he recovered quickly. “Oh, he and Sir Sacherell are holed up in a village near the border with Fief Malven, with Duke Baird. There’s influenza going around there, and Sir Sacherell wanted him to practice some of the healing he’s learned.”

When she returned to the dais with wine, Lord Eldorne was talking to the king about irrigation canals while Roger gazed off into the middle distance.

After the banquet, the nobility relocated to the ballroom, and Kel began to clear the table. She was within earshot when Lord Alexander rose from his seat, offered his arm to Princess Jessamine, and said in an undertone, “So your grandfather opened his best ballroom for the Grand Progress. Did he go so far as to dust it, too?”

In the ballroom, Kel was put on serving duty again. She circled the room slowly with a tray of canapés, while the musicians played in one of the galleries overhead. It was a long room of whitewashed stone, lined with bright tapestries and gold sconces blazing with light. There was an enormous fireplace set into the far wall, one of the shorter walls, and a rounded doorway leading out into a courtyard on the opposite side of the room. As she passed the doorway, during one of her slow laps around the room, she heard a familiar voice emanating from the shadows outside.

“Honestly, Alex, I was hardly going to throw myself at you in front of your mother. I know you’re deeply repressed, but do have a little respect for me.”

It was wrong to eavesdrop, but Kel paused in spite of herself, looking around for anyone who might want a canapé. “I’m sorry,” she heard Lord Alexander say quietly. “I was tired, and I was a little unkind to you earlier.”

“Oh,” said Lord Thom, sounding rather surprised to hear an apology given so readily. “Well, then. I’m _freezing_. Shall we go inside?”

Kel hurried on, and missed her knight-master’s reply.

True to his word, Lord Alexander entered the fencing competition the next morning. Kel wasn’t sure she could have performed so well after a day of riding and then a party that had run late into the night, but exhaustion didn’t seem to have dulled his reflexes at all. The only opponent who came close to beating him was a young knight from Fief Haryse, the last of the four men he fought. When he shook the younger man’s hand after the bout, Kel was standing near enough to see the look of disappointment on his face.

“That was sloppy of me,” he confessed to her, after taking a long drink from the water bottle she’d handed him.

“I thought you did well, my lord,” she replied, a little surprised. It had been an impressive fight to watch. She always liked it when his opponents were more or less on equal footing with him.

He shook his head. “I could have been faster. Footwork, Kel — we’re going to do more footwork drills. You should be faster as well.”

She followed him to the mess tent, where she found herself in line for a tray beside Joren, of all people. “So you’re back,” said Joren, with audible disgust. “I expected you to be off fighting hill barbarians.” His gaze flicked over to Lord Alexander as he said these last words, lingering on him for just long enough to make it clear who he thought the hill barbarians were.

“We returned yesterday,” said Kel, her face blank.

“Oh,” he said, and turned away.

She watched him over lunch, while her knight-master silently worked his way through a small mountain of food across from her. Joren sat with a handful of young knights, including one of Lord Alexander’s opponents from earlier, talking animatedly with them and ignoring her utterly.

When he was done with his meal, Lord Alexander rose from the table with a yawn. “Take the afternoon off, Kel. I’ll be asleep for most of it.”

She spent the next few hours wandering the Eldorne gardens with her friends. She’d wanted to see them; she had heard that the queen’s mother had a Gift with plants, and Jasson was happy to give them a tour. Neal hadn’t returned yet, but Merric and Cleon had been granted some free time that afternoon as well. They were gazing at a labyrinthine tangle of rosebushes when someone stepped out abruptly from behind a hedge.

“Grandfather says this is the perfect climate for them,” Jasson was saying, of the roses. “He says the ones in Corus are sickly and — can I help you?” He frowned up at the newcomer, a young knight wearing the tunic badge of Fief Groten. Kel had seen him before: he had sat with Joren at lunch.

“Lovely roses,” said the knight, smiling coldly at them. He looked each of them over in turn, and then slapped Kel lightly across the face with his riding glove.

Kel stared at him, feeling as though someone had poured ice water over her head.

“Are you _joking_?” cried Cleon, his face reddening with indignation. “She’s a first-year squire!”

The knight sneered at Kel. “She calls herself one. That doesn’t make her worthy of the title.”

“I accept,” said Kel quietly, her eyes trained on his. “Tomorrow, then, at the fencing court. Ten gold crowns if you lose.” If she lost, and she suspected she would, she had enough money from the fine Joren had paid her.

“Fine,” he said, shrugging as though the money meant nothing to him. “I’ll enter our names with the tournament clerk.”

She watched him walk away. After a moment, Merric let go of Cleon’s arm; at some point he must have grabbed it, to stop him from hitting the knight. “I’d better go tell my lord,” said Kel with a sigh. “He’ll want to know I’m competing tomorrow.”

Lord Alexander had awoken from his nap by the time she reached their suite. He sat in a chair by the sitting room fireplace, leafing through a book she didn’t remember seeing among his belongings. Shiro lay curled up at his feet, exhausted after a day of exploring the castle on his own.

Kel sat down across from them. “What are you reading, my lord?”

“Oh, just something Duke Gareth loaned me. It’s about ethics.” He glanced up at her, smiling, and reached down to scratch Shiro behind the ears. “Our little joke, I suppose. Whenever I’d get punishment work as a page, he would give me an extra hour of the class in which I was least satisfactory.”

“Ethics?” she said, puzzled by that. She and her year-mates hadn’t had an ethics class as pages. In retrospect, they probably should have, given Joren’s behavior, and that of the knight from Fief Groten.

“Well, philosophy and ethics, they called it, but it was heavy on the latter. Trying to turn a pack of feral twelve-year-olds into honorable knights, I suppose.”

Kel nodded, thinking of the kind of philosophy books that Neal sometimes read aloud to her. They were more useful as a sleep aid than anything else. “Is it an interesting book?”

“No.” He closed it with a snap and looked up at her again, studying her face. “What’s wrong, Kel?”

She told him. For a moment afterward he was quiet, his expression thoughtful. “Fief Groten,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Describe the man to me.”

She did so, and he nodded. “That would be Ansil of Groten. I’ve faced him in the tilting lanes, but he hasn’t had the courage to challenge me to a duel yet. Still, I’ve watched him fence. He’s a little too slow on the offense, and he often forgets to attack low. Go for the legs and see how he reacts.” He leaned forward, his eyes on hers. “He’ll underestimate you, I’m sure, especially if you hold back a little at the beginning. Let him. Once he starts to get lazy, use his favorite tricks against him.”

Kel nodded. “Thank you, my lord. Did you want me to lay out your dinner clothes now?”

She slept badly that night, tossing and turning long after she would usually have fallen asleep. Sounds from the corridor reached her, the chatter and laughter of people going to bed late after that night’s party pricking at her like needles, though the walls of the castle weren’t all that thin. It should have been quiet. At last she managed to fall asleep.

For one of the few times in recent memory, she slept past dawn, feeling scratchy-eyed and stiff when she woke. Grimly she pushed herself through her morning stretches and a quick sword drill, before going down to breakfast. She had slept through her dawn naginata practice with the Yamani ladies. Next morning she’d be there, she promised herself.

When she got down to breakfast, Neal was there with his knight-master. “Kel!” he cried when he saw her, looking horrified. “You’re going to fight Ansil of Groten today?”

Kel sighed. Her parents had reacted the same way, when she had seen them in the ballroom after the banquet the night before. She was beginning to get tired of having this conversation.

“Good morning, Keladry,” said Sir Sacherell of Wellam.

“Good morning, sir.” To Neal she said, “When did you return?” There was something odd about him, she thought, and then realized what it was. Her heart used to beat a little faster when he was near, but recently that feeling seemed to have faded away. He looked ordinary to her now, like just another one of her friends. That realization brought with it a dull feeling of loss, mingled with relief.

“Late last night,” he replied more calmly. “We’re housed down in the camp, but Father wanted us to have a look at the castle stillroom this morning, so here we are. _Sir_ Ansil of Groten? When did you go mad, Kel? You’re only a first-year squire.”

“I haven’t gone mad. He challenged me, so I had to accept. I saw him sitting with Joren at lunch, which is probably where he got the idea.”

As she explained herself, Neal’s face went on a journey through a range of unhappy emotions. Finally he seemed to settle on grim acceptance. “Maybe it’s all right. Lord Alexander knows? He told you how to beat Groten?”

“I’m not going to win,” said Kel, who had already made her peace with that. “I’m just going to do the best I can.”

“Well put,” said Sir Sacherell, looking at her with approval. “That’s all you can do, really.”

Neal stared at his knight-master. “Everyone’s run mad here. Look, Kel, be _careful_. If Groten is the kind of knight who slaps a squire in the face — a _first-year_ squire — so he can try to prove she’s not fit to be a squire, he might do anything. He might try to run you through if he doesn’t like how the fight is going.”

“She’ll be wearing a padded jacket,” Sacherell pointed out, most of his attention on the thick slices of glazed ham he had piled onto his plate. Hungry after a night of very little sleep, Kel joined him in shifting more of her attention to her breakfast.

“Oh, a jacket! My mistake, you’ll be completely safe with a _jacket_ on. What time is the duel?” he asked Kel. “I’ll make sure Father’s not doing anything else then.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “I doubt we’re going to need the best healer in the land, Neal.”

The day had dawned bright and warm for early February. The brisk wind that encircled the castle walls was less strong at the base of the hill, to the point where Kel had begun to feel slightly overheated in the gambeson and padded breeches she wore. She stood at the edge of the packed earth court where the fencing competitions were held, her fencing gloves in one hand and her sword at her belt, and listened to the field monitor’s instructions. Ansil of Groten stood at the other end of the court, talking and laughing with a few friends as he stretched lightly. Kel had sent hers away, human and animal alike, so she could have a moment of quiet before the match.

“You’ll fight to first blood,” the field monitor told her, as she pulled on her gloves. “It’s a bit archaic, but there’s a healer close at hand. We make sure of that. If you’re hit and blood is drawn, or if you strike your opponent and see blood, stop immediately. Retreat, and salute your opponent from a safe distance. If you continue fighting, you’ll be disqualified. Do you understand me?”

Kel nodded.

“Then take your place in the center of the ground, and listen for the herald’s call.”

Their starting places were marked out on the ground in white chalk. Kel took her place, standing opposite Ansil with her sword drawn, and sank deep into the quiet place she went inside of herself, whenever she did her pattern dances or practiced her tilting. Her muscles were warm, her balance good on the packed earth. Her opponent was about her size; in that respect, at least, they were evenly matched.

“Ready?” called the herald from the edge of the ground.

They saluted him with their swords, and then turned and saluted each other. Kel’s eyes met Ansil’s as they lowered their swords to the guard position. His were like polished stone, no light escaping them as he sneered at her.

“Begin!”

She attacked first, lunging at him with a direct strike to his chest that he knocked away with a little more force than necessary. He attacked her flank; she pivoted out of his way. Again he struck, and this time she parried, twisted her blade around his, and struck low.

He jumped back, as if startled, but recovered quickly. Lunging in, he locked blades with her, trying to force her to the ground. She almost smiled. Joren had tried that as well, and she knew her knight-master liked using this trick on smaller opponents. Despite her size, men were forever going to be testing her strength. From the look on Ansil’s face, he had expected her to have less of it.

She pressed him back, as though she meant to hold her ground, and then pushed off her front foot and retreated back a few steps. He stumbled slightly before falling back as well.

A high feint, and when he fell for it she went for his legs again. The tip of her blade struck flesh, biting through his padded breeches.

Kel stepped back to salute him, feeling as surprised as he looked. There was a spot of blood on the undyed cloth, and his face was dead white as he moved toward her. She took another step back, as the herald called out, “Mindelan!”

Ansil glared at her. “This proves nothing, wench.”

“You challenged _me_ ,” she reminded him. “And you just lost. You owe me ten gold crowns.”

His lip curled as he saluted to her rigidly. “You’ll get them by the end of the day. Satisfied?”

Satisfaction didn’t enter into it. She hadn’t yet recovered from the surprise of beating a full knight, and she was still angry he had challenged her in the first place. “Very well,” she said.

“You won’t live until your Ordeal,” he spat, before turning and striding away.

Footsteps. She turned, sword in hand, and saw Lord Alexander standing there, holding out a cloth. With a murmur of thanks, she accepted it and wiped her blade clean.

“Very well fought, Kel,” he said, a grin creeping over his face. “How do you feel?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” she replied honestly. She sheathed her sword and followed him off the fencing ground. Physically she felt all right, if rather tired now that the adrenaline was starting to fade. “I think I’d like a nap.”

He laughed. “Make sure you have plenty of water, too. I’ll see you when you wake up. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Sir Gareth of Naxen owes me money.”

She watched him walk away, shaking her head with amusement, and then she made her way through the Eldorne gardens back to her bedroom. Alone in her dressing room, she stripped off her padded jacket and splashed her face with cold water. After a moment, she began to feel like herself again, returned to the pageantry of the Grand Progress.

When Kel emerged from her bedroom after her nap, Lady Isra's maid, Sarra, was mending one of her mistress’s long tunics beside the fireplace. “I have a message for you, Squire Keladry,” she said when she saw her. “Your mother came by to ask if you’d have tea with her in the rose garden after you woke up.”

The morning’s brisk wind had died down. Kel found her mother seated at a little table on the veranda overlooking Lady Eldorne’s rose garden, with the family tea things spread out before her. Lady Ilane smiled when she saw her, shading her eyes from the sun. “You fought so well, my darling. You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

“No, Mama,” said Kel, sitting down across from her.

“I should have guessed something like this would happen soon,” she said, as she scooped powdered green tea into their cups. Bright flowers crowded close to their table, twining up the columns and along the railing beside them.

Kel frowned at her. “What do you mean?”

“With these tournaments at every fief and city where we stop, I’m a little surprised someone hasn’t challenged you already. Quite a lot of knights are going to want to test you. They may have held off until now because of your youth, but now that Sir Ansil has done it, others will follow suit.”

Kel sighed. She was probably right about that. “I saw him talking with Joren of Stone Mountain yesterday, before he challenged me. He probably put him up to it.”

Briskly, Ilane whisked their tea into a froth. “Most likely he did,” she said, before passing a cup to Kel. “But you won your challenge, which is quite a feat for a new squire. How do you feel?”

“Tired, mostly. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“I’m not surprised.” She took a careful sip of her tea. “I didn’t get the chance to ask you about Fief Tirragen yesterday. How did you like it? I’ve only seen the castle from a distance myself.”

Kel told her about the visit, though she avoided mentioning the fight with the bandits. Part of her was still trying to figure out how she felt about how it had gone, and she didn’t know how to frame the incident to her mother without minimizing the last man’s death, or biasing her mother against her knight-master any further.

“I met Isra of Tirragen once,” her mother remarked at one point. “She came to the capital for the coronation, I believe — or was it the king’s wedding? Charming woman.”

“She asked whether I was interested in marrying her youngest nephew,” said Kel, hoping her mother would find this as funny as she did.

Ilane snorted. “Oh dear. Did you tell her about the state of your dowry?”

She nodded. “She just wanted to improve my reputation at court, I think.”

“Her youngest nephew,” said Ilane thoughtfully, leaning back in her chair. “That would be Norrow of Tirragen, I believe. Wasn’t his mother a younger daughter of Fief Legann? One of the cadet branches, I think. If I’m not mistaken, he has two older brothers. He’s not likely to inherit anything.”

“Probably not,” said Kel cheerfully. “Apparently he’s a student in the City of the Gods. I don’t know anything else about him.”

Ilane shook her head, smiling. “You’d both have to make your own way in the world if you actually married him, or else be dependent on the charity of Lord Alexander. I think you’re right: she only wanted to save your reputation.”

“It was kind of her, if a bit silly. I don’t want to marry anyone.”

“Well, you don’t have to,” said her mother. “You’re quite free to do what you like with regards to romance.” She took another sip of her tea, gazing out at the garden, and Kel went back to telling her about Fief Tirragen.

She was telling her a story about the day that one of the castle hounds had snuck into the kitchen and gorged himself on flatbread, of all things, when her mother’s expression turned thoughtful again. “Sencha?” she repeated.

“Lord Alexander’s cousin’s wife,” Kel explained. “She trains the hounds. That one’s still a puppy.”

Ilane smiled. “They’re hungry at that age. Not Sencha of Malven? No, I suppose she must be. I’d forgotten how that turned out.”

“How what turned out, Mama?” The name Malven rang a bell, and not in a good way, but Kel couldn’t quite place it.

Her mother was gazing out at the roses. “I’m fairly certain she was the youngest daughter, but she may have been the second youngest. The Malvens have so many children. I do remember the betrothal announcement, now that I think about it. One of those long Hill Country weddings, I suppose, with all the flowers and dancing. And of course I remember her older sister’s presentation at court.” She sipped her tea, returning her attention to Kel’s face. “It’s a rather sad story. The oldest Malven girl was going to marry your knight-master, you know.”

Kel blinked at her, startled by that revelation. “What happened?”

“Well, their fathers had just finished drawing up the betrothal papers, as I remember it, when the scandal broke. One of her brothers was caught trying to rape the bailiff’s daughter in a village not far from here.” Her eyes were hard. “The girl’s maid threw acid in his face.”

Kel winced, suddenly remembering where she’d heard the name Malven before: in conversation with Lord Thom over tea, when he had told her the story of the bully who had plagued his sister’s page years. He had left the palace in disgrace after Lady Alanna had beaten him in a fight; perhaps if he’d actually been punished for bullying her earlier, he would never have assaulted the bailiff’s daughter. But punishment, her knight-master had told her recently, wasn’t quite the same thing as justice. “Ralon of Malven, Mama?” she asked.

“That’s right,” said her mother, looking faintly surprised that she’d heard of him. “Viljo and Gaylyah disinherited their son and cast him out of the family, but the damage was done.” She took another sip of her tea, silent for a moment. “You know what people are like, Kel — when someone does something terrible, other people are often more upset with the person who brought it to light.”

Kel nodded. Years of fighting bullies had taught her that many people didn’t like having wrongdoing openly talked about. “So Lord Alexander’s father broke off the betrothal?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. But after he inherited, Lord Alexander arranged a marriage between his cousin and one of the younger Malven daughters.” She paused again, gazing out at the garden. “A happy one, I hope.”

“I think so,” said Kel. She had seen enough of Mikal and Sencha over the past two weeks, at meals and around the castle, to come to that conclusion. “Did the older sister ever marry?”

Ilane looked thoughtful. “She did, yes,” she replied eventually. “Some younger son of a cadet branch of — Macayhill, I believe it was.”

Kel nodded. She wondered where Ralon of Malven was now, if he was still alive, and if he knew — or cared about — all the havoc he’d caused. Not merely for the bailiff’s daughter and his own family, but for her family as well, her maid, and those who had known him at the palace. She wondered whether Alanna of Trebond still thought of him occasionally.

Her mother was gazing at one of the roses twining around the railing closest to her chair. “What a striking color,” she remarked, brushing her fingers over the petals.

“How was Whitethorn?” asked Kel, wanting to change the subject. “I heard there was an incident with the castle watch after an archery tournament.”

Ilane laughed. “That’s right. Poor Colm of Rosemark. He got very drunk that evening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few lines are borrowed from _Squire_ , and the names of the Hill Country gods come from _Mastiff_. Morni the Mad is evidently a war goddess, but we don't learn anything concrete in canon about Keirnun or Danya, or the storm gods. Ideally I'd like an entire book about Hill Country, but Tamora Pierce has yet to deliver on that.


	15. Persopolis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, it's our boy, Dubcon Roger. Content warning for him creeping on a random musician who does not feel particularly comfortable saying no to anyone with a family crest, and for the vague threat of a threesome that only one person here is into. Is it ethical for a king who can read people's minds to sleep with _any_ of his subjects? Not really, but this doesn't seem to bother Roger.

It rained on their last full day at Fief Eldorne, a hard driving rain that lasted half the morning and made Lord Alexander tip his head back and laugh when the downpour began. “Thank you, storm gods,” he murmured, as the water streamed over his face. Then he sheathed his practice sword and said to Kel, “Better put that away before it starts to rust. Let’s go inside.”

The rain began to let up after lunch, though it was still wet and dreary enough that Lord Alexander led Kel into one of the castle libraries instead of back outside, saying, “How’s your genealogy, squire?”

“Fair, sir,” she replied, “at least when it comes to the Tortallan nobility. I remember some Yamani genealogy, too, though I’ve forgotten most of the minor noble houses.”

He smiled. “I suspect most of your peers would be hard pressed to name a single Yamani noble family that isn’t the emperor’s.”

He found the Book of Silver on a shelf near the door and opened it to a seemingly random page. “Have a seat. I’ll quiz you until the rain stops.”

They weren’t alone: Sir Raoul was already sitting beside the fire, leafing through a book and gazing intermittently out the window at the rain-drenched garden. “Good day for tilting, as soon as this lets up,” he remarked as Kel sat down next to him.

Lord Alexander raised an eyebrow. “Surely you’re joking. We’ll have mud in our teeth.”

“If it’s good enough for the roses, it’s good enough for you,” he replied cheerfully.

“We’ll start with an easy one,” said Lord Alexander, turning his attention to a page near the beginning of the Book of Silver. “Cavall. Arms?”

She thought for a moment. “A rearing black dog, holding a black sword in its paws, on a white field bordered in gold.”

“Good. Nond?”

After three more fiefs (she stumbled over the arms of Fief Mandash), the sun began to come out from behind the clouds, and Sir Raoul brightened considerably. “Might be over at last.”

“I thought you liked the rain,” said Lord Alexander, “so long as you were indoors.”

“I used to, but now it just makes my joints ache.” He flashed a conspiratorial smile at Kel. “Never get old.”

“I hadn’t planned on it,” said Lord Alexander, flipping idly to the end of the Book of Silver.

“No?”

He shook his head. “By the time I took my Ordeal, I’d resigned myself to an early death. Figured I probably wouldn’t make it past twenty-five.”

That struck Kel as uncomfortably grim, but Raoul’s expression only softened a little: sympathy tinged with sadness, where the light illuminated his face clearly. “And yet, here you are. Funny old world, isn’t it?”

“Funny like a joke, or a museum curiosity?” said Lord Alexander, almost inaudibly, before returning his attention to Kel. “Fief Brightleigh?”

“It’s been a while since you’ve tilted against me,” Raoul said to her.

“It’s going to take her hours to get the mud out of our tack, not to mention everything else.”

“I don’t mind, sir,” said Kel, who was feeling restless after hours of being stuck indoors. “I’d like to get some more practice in before we’re back on the road.”

“Quite right,” said Sir Raoul. “And the ground will be nice and soft.”

The sky was still half stormy when they made their way down to the tilting yards, with brilliant sunlight from the west and dark clouds speeding away eastward toward the Tusaine border. The ground was wet and the wind high, and they were alone in the yard for the first half hour.

“Take a few runs against Sir Raoul while you’re fresh,” said Lord Alexander, as Kel mounted Peachblossom. He passed her a practice lance, and she was struck by how much she had missed this.

She managed to stay in the saddle for the first two runs. “You’re getting better!” Raoul called to her, as they rode back into position for a third run. “If my behind weren’t made of lead, you might have had me out of the saddle that time!”

“Thank you, sir!” she called, shaking out her aching shield arm.

Her seat was wrong this time; she realized it just before his lance struck her shield. She landed in the mud, her ears ringing. Pushing herself up into a sitting position, she pulled off her helm to quiet the ringing a little, and saw Cleon and her brother Inness standing by the fence with their mounts, talking with Lord Alexander. An audience of strangers would have been preferable.

Cleon grinned at her, shading his eyes from the sun. “How’s flight, Kel?” he called. “You looked like an eagle soaring majestically through the sky.”

“Why don’t you mount up and try it?” she replied, grinning back at him.

As it turned out, that was what Inness had been discussing with Lord Alexander. They both thought it was a good idea for their squires to practice tilting against different opponents. After shaking off some of the mud, Kel found herself facing off against Cleon for the first time, and then against her brother while Cleon tilted against Raoul.

“Inness went easy on me, I think,” Kel murmured to Cleon, as they sat on the fence afterward, watching Inness take a third run against Lord Alexander. Both men stayed in the saddle, but her brother’s lance shattered on impact.

Cleon massaged his shield arm. “Either that, or you’ve been taking too many runs at that giant. Meaning no disrespect, sir,” he added, when Sir Raoul grinned at him.

“I’ve gotten better at tilting,” said Kel, as her knight-master rode back toward them. “I usually stay in the saddle now.” She climbed down from the fence, so she could take War Hammer’s reins when Lord Alexander dismounted.

“How lucky I was to see you fly, then.” Still perched atop the fence, Cleon studied her with a smile. “You look like a spring crocus.”

“Covered in mud?”

“A gloriously bright spot amidst the grass.”

Rolling her eyes, Kel added War Hammer’s reins to Peachblossom’s. “I’ll see you in our rooms later, sir,” she told her knight-master, as she led the horses away. She was looking forward to a bath.

To her surprise, he followed her.

“My lord?” she said, glancing back at him with a puzzled frown. “Is there something else?”

Lord Alexander cleared his throat, looking embarrassed by something.

She could wait. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as they walked along, giving him time to get his thoughts in order.

“You shouldn’t let him flirt with you so,” he said finally. “He’ll get ideas, or other people will.”

Kel stared at him, shocked. “Cleon? He’s just having fun. He’s _betrothed_.”

“That wasn’t how it looked to me. He has a habit of making jokes like that, doesn’t he? When was his betrothal arranged?”

“Years ago.” He had told her and their other friends about it: after his father’s death, with the treasury at Fief Kennan running low, Cleon’s mother had arranged his marriage to an heiress, the daughter of one of her friends.

“I have seen countless squires, over the years, spend wild days at court bedding chambermaids and flirting with young noblewomen, before going home to honor childhood betrothals.”

From the look on his face, he wasn’t joking about any of this. She fell silent, thinking it over. They reached the stable before she knew quite how to respond. While she began to groom the horses, Lord Alexander leaned against the wall opposite the stalls. He looked as though he’d rather be doing anything else in the world than having this conversation, and yet he hadn’t left.

“Before you ask,” he began, “I would say this to a male squire, too. I _have_ said this to squires before you, though they tend not to listen. I really think you should wait until after your Ordeal for romance.”

Kel studied his face. “You think it would be a distraction,” she guessed. She couldn’t argue with that. She had found her fading crush on Neal, one-sided though it was, to be distracting enough over the past few years; she didn’t know how she would have reacted if he had actually returned her feelings. Her head spun at the thought of Cleon meaning anything real by his silly compliments.

Lord Alexander looked relieved that she had caught on so quickly, or that she hadn’t argued with him. “A distraction, yes, that’s exactly right. And not only that — you could get hurt. Your friend Cleon isn’t much older than you, but he’s still older. He’s had more experience of the world. When you’re relatively young and inexperienced, it’s easy to get hurt.”

Kel nodded. Growing up, she had seen her sisters’ hearts break over young men more times than she could count. “I’d rather not get hurt like that, sir. I have enough to worry about already.”

He smiled, his posture relaxing a little. “You certainly do. I’m glad you feel that way. You know, I was the same way at your age — not interested in all the fuss and heartbreak of it all. There’s plenty of time for that in the future, after all, if you’re interested in it then. Though there’s nothing wrong with never taking an interest in it. Some people don’t.”

The thought of her future, of unknown decades stretched out before her, made her head spin again in a different way. She thought of what he had told Raoul, that he hadn’t thought he’d live past the age of twenty-five, and then made herself smile back at him. Awkward as this conversation was, another knight-master would have handled it differently, and perhaps badly. He had treated her like any of his other squires.

He cleared his throat again, frowning slightly. “If you have questions about issues of the body, you would probably do better to ask your mother, or one of your sisters. I’m afraid I know very little about such things. Though of course as your knight-master, I’d do my best to answer any —”

“I’ll ask Mama,” she interrupted, to stop him from looking increasingly more embarrassed. _She_ was embarrassed enough as it was. “Thank you, sir.”

He smiled at her. “Well, I could do with a bath and a nap right now, and you probably could as well. I’m sure we’ll all be up late tonight. No doubt Lord Eldorne’s planned some kind of grand finale to celebrate the fact that we’re leaving in the morning.”

“Dark colors, sir?” she asked, starting to plan which banquet clothes to lay out for him.

“No, better make it something vaguely cheerful for once. I wouldn’t want Helier to think I’m mourning our departure.”

They escorted his mother back to Tirragen Castle, where the Grand Progress stayed for a few days before continuing south into the desert toward Persopolis. “I’ll try to make it back here by the end of harvest season,” Alex told her, before they parted. “Next planting season at the latest.”

“Do be careful, dear,” she replied, kissed his cheek, and let him go.

When they reached the sand dunes south of Fief Tirragen, a squad of the King’s Own rode out ahead of the progress to scout for trouble. It didn’t take much effort to persuade Roger to let Alex and Kel go with them. It was a bright spring day, warmer here than mid-March usually was in Corus, and the king was in good spirits.

Their scouting party was perhaps an hour north of Persopolis when they encountered three Bazhir riders. The men sat comfortably astride their light, quick mares, looking as though they had been waiting for the progress to arrive. From their tack and the colors of the cords fastening their burnooses, Alex knew they hailed from the desert just southeast of the city.

“Good morning,” called the tall, broad-shouldered man at the head of the trio, in lilting Common Eastern. He smiled at them, a polite gesture without any actual warmth behind it. “You are with the Grand Progress? Bound for Persopolis?”

“That’s correct,” replied the sergeant in command, a younger son of Fief Rosemark. “What of it?”

“We are here on behalf of the Voice of the Tribes,” the Bazhir man explained. “He has no concerns about you traveling to Persopolis, but he begs that you not continue further south. The desert has its perils.”

Alex glanced at the sergeant, who was looking annoyed. Strict protocol dictated that he shouldn’t have spoken for their party at all: he should have let Alex do it, as the only lord and knight among them. Instead of backing off, the sergeant seemed determined to get them all deeper into trouble. “The Grand Progress is bound for Pearlmouth,” he explained.

“I will speak with the king when we reach Persopolis,” said Alex, switching to Bazhir. Most of the Tortallans there could understand at least a little of it. “I’ll tell him that the Voice warns against proceeding south through the desert. Is there anything else?”

The Bazhir man raised his eyebrows slightly, smiling at him. “Tell your king that we bid him and his company safe travels.” He bowed to them in the saddle, before turning his horse to ride away. His companions followed without a word.

The sergeant turned his head and spat. “Curse it. The king won’t like this.”

“I’ll tell him,” said Alex again, this time in Common.

He didn’t get a chance to speak to the king alone until just before the banquet that evening, while Roger was dressing for dinner. He described the encounter as briefly and plainly as he could, while the king stood before his dressing room mirror in his shirt and hose, trying to choose a tunic that suited his mood. “Thank you for telling me, my dear,” he said, when Alex had finished. “Now, a question for you: rubies or sapphires?”

The governor of Persopolis had prepared a lavish feast for his guests, with musicians to serenade them while they ate. Seated on the dais near the king, Alex spent most of the meal eating in silence or talking with the governor, a middle-aged Bazhir man who was, contrary to the usual practice, not the Voice of the Tribes. He had grown up on the northeastern edge of the desert, on lands bordering those of Alex’s mother’s tribe.

Roger seemed distracted that evening, perhaps because of the mixed reception the Grand Progress had received earlier that day, while riding through the city. After the encounter with the Bazhir riders, there had been something vaguely ominous about the small groups of silent, watchful Bazhir among the cheering crowds. At the time, Roger hadn’t seemed bothered by them, but now he was unusually quiet, gazing over at the musicians while he ate. Perhaps he’d listened to Alex after all, and the message he’d relayed was finally sinking in, or perhaps he’d developed a sudden passion for music.

The explanation came a few hours later, when Alex knocked on the door to Roger’s sitting room, intent on having a longer conversation with the king about that encounter in the desert.

“Come in,” called Roger.

When Alex opened the door, he saw one of the musicians from the banquet perched on a settee beside the king, red-faced. There was a lute on his lap, perhaps the cause of his rumpled tunic. He glanced up at Alex, and began hastily strumming the lute.

“Have a seat, Alex,” said Roger, “and do shut the door behind you. Why don’t we listen to some music?”

Alex sighed. “Would you send him away, please?”

“Absolutely not. Go ahead, sit down. Wine?” He got up from the settee, located a third ornate glass, and poured some wine into it from the pitcher on the nearest table. “They make beautiful glassware in Persopolis, don’t they?”

Alex accepted his glass with mute resignation and sank into an armchair beside the king, glancing at the lute player again as he obediently took a sip of wine. The man was perhaps thirty years old and handsome enough, with tousled auburn hair and wide dark eyes, though at the banquet he had only looked like yet another musician. “Sire, we need to talk.”

Roger settled back onto the settee, resting one ankle comfortably on his other knee. He looked as though he intended to never leave Persopolis Castle. “About what?”

“The fact that our plan to continue south through the desert remains unchanged.”

Roger shook his head slowly, like a knight-master whose squire had just disappointed him. “Those men were only trying to frighten us.” He raised an eyebrow. “Evidently it worked.”

“It seems to me that we ought to avoid danger as much as we can. There are hundreds of civilians with us, and if the progress is attacked in force . . .”

Roger’s expression had turned thoughtful, and for a moment Alex thought he might be giving the matter the kind of attention it deserved. Then he shrugged. “Thom warned me against traveling near the Scanran border last summer. He said there was a mage who served the council in Hamrkeng, whom he thought was his equal or mine, and whom he thought hostile to the kingdom of Tortall. And what happened? Nothing at all. The mage did not show his face; we weren’t even troubled by Scanran raiders.” A smile spread over his face, the kind of smile that had always made Alex want to do whatever he said. “Our enemies _know_ we have powerful mages, Alex. We have the King’s Own, and scores of knights. We’ll be fine. I wish you wouldn’t worry so much.”

Alex felt his skin prickle, but he kept his expression tranquil. Privately he thought that if Thom was wary of another mage, the rest of them ought to be on their guard.

Roger leaned over and patted him on the knee, in a friendly sort of way. “Between you and me, Thom’s jealous. He’s like me: he hates it when someone else is his equal. Just ignore him.”

That gave Alex a chill: it had always unsettled him when Roger answered a thought he had not voiced. Roger didn’t seem to notice. He turned to the musician, smiling indulgently at him. “Have some more wine, Finn. I had a very irritating conversation this afternoon with Yves of Sandhill,” he confided in Alex, finishing off the last of what was in his own glass. “He felt it necessary to contact me via mage fire shortly after we arrived. So as I’m sure you can imagine, right now I want to get thoroughly drunk and enjoy myself. Please, join us. There’s no reason not to; we’ll all be holed up in Persopolis for another week anyway.”

The musician’s eyes widened slightly. He glanced at Alex, and then at Roger, and then down at his own slippers, but his hands didn’t falter on the lute. Trying to ignore him, Alex took another sip of wine. This conversation wasn’t going the way he had hoped. “What did Yves report?” he asked. He always forgot the king’s spymaster was a mage, perhaps because he wasn’t much of a mage, at least not according to Roger and Thom. The king had left him behind in Corus with the prime minister, and Alex didn’t like to think about what they might be getting up to, left to their own devices there.

Roger, in the midst of refilling his glass, scowled down at the ornate carpet. “Evidently there’s been some trouble with one of our agents in the Copper Isles.”

From the other end of the settee, gentle music continued to play. Alex glanced pointedly toward the musician, who didn’t look up at him again. “Roger, he’s been playing all evening. Surely he’s tired. Let him retire to his room.”

The king turned back to his companion on the settee. “Are you tired, my dear?”

Finn tensed and glanced up at them through a curtain of tousled hair, his eyes darting nervously from Roger to Alex. “No, sire, I’m perfectly content here.” He attempted to smile at Alex. Judging by his accent, he had probably come from Whitethorn.

Roger leaned back against the cushions, smiling triumphantly. “You see? He’s quite happy.”

Alex gave up. “What sort of trouble in the Copper Isles?”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, one of our agents there was reporting back nonsense to Yves, that’s all. About a month ago, it seems, a maid engaged in service with House Balitang told the agent that a god had visited her in a dream. She told her that the god had given her a message: if Gavain marries the duke’s eldest daughter as planned, both our nations will fall into ruin.”

Alex watched as Roger took another long drink from his glass. “So, one of our agents in the Copper Isles has been compromised?”

“That’s precisely what I said to Yves. And then I told him to replace the woman immediately.”

“Does Yves know how the maid figured out she was a Tortallan agent?”

“Hasn’t a clue. Personally, I think we ought to be taking a closer look at the servants in that family.” He sighed. “Ruling can be such a headache, can’t it? Have some more wine, Alex.”

Alex took another sip, before setting his glass down on the table beside his chair. “It’s late. I should really be heading back to my rooms.”

Roger sighed. “If you insist,” he said, a little petulantly, and stretched his arms out over the back of the settee. One of his hands brushed Finn’s shoulder. “Have a good night, then.”

“Who was that?” Alex heard the musician ask quietly, as he left the room.

“Lord Tirragen,” Roger replied.

“Gods,” breathed Finn. Alex shut the door firmly, shaking his head. He could recognize a commoner who got queasy around the nobility. If Roger had been thinking clearly, he would have noticed it as well, and hopefully left the poor man alone.

When Alex got back to his room, he found Thom lounging on the bed. He was wearing violet hose and a scarlet shirt, and reading a book that Alex had borrowed from the castle’s library earlier that day. A violet tunic sparkling with amethysts had been draped carelessly over the back of a chair, beside a black-and-gold mage’s robe; a pair of gold slippers lay scattered on the hearth rug.

Alex stopped short, and then pulled the door shut behind him and locked it.

“ _There_ you are,” said Thom, without looking up. “I’ve been waiting for well over half an hour.”

“Half an hour? Suppose my squire had seen you.”

Thom glanced up. “Why would she break into your bedroom?” he asked, as though it had never crossed his mind that Kel might need to enter his room for any reason. “You can raise your voice, you know — I already put a silencing charm on the room.”

Alex pulled off his boots and sat down on the bed beside him. “What is it you think a squire does, exactly?”

“I couldn’t say,” drawled Thom. “Help you put on those metal clothes you like to wear? Sharpen your tournament lance? Feed your horses their daily ration of other people’s fingers?”

Alex leaned over and kissed him, which seemed to distract him from his ideas about squires. Making a low, eager noise, Thom seized him by the shoulders and pushed him back against the pillows, and Alex was happy to be pushed. He’d had enough wine that evening, all told, for the world to have turned warm and soft-edged; if this happened to be one of his last nights on earth, at least he had Thom to share it with.

Thom straddled his hips and then paused, frowning. “What’s the matter? You’re thinking about your own mortality again.”

“I’m tired of people reading my mind.”

“Sorry. I could give you some kind of charm to ward against that, if you like. Just let me know. I see you had a conversation with Old Smiley tonight.” Startled, Alex began to laugh, and Thom went on, “So what happened?”

Alex stopped laughing. “Did you warn Roger away from the Scanran border because of a mage in Hamrkeng?”

“Yes, I did, for all the good it did me. Our beloved tyrant always does what he wants, doesn’t he?”

“But the progress wasn’t attacked,” Alex pointed out.

“No, thank the gods for that. I suppose we had too many strong mages with us.” He was silent for a moment, gazing down at Alex impassively. Then he said, “The man’s name is Inar Hadensra. You’ll know him when you see him, if you’re ever unfortunate enough to meet him. He’s a big blond fellow with a ruby for an eye. Of course, if you do meet him you’ll likely be too busy being on fire to take much note of his appearance. His Gift is red,” he added, with an air of trying to be helpful.

“A ruby for an eye,” repeated Alex incredulously.

“Ostentatious, isn’t it? And he only serves the council, not the Scanran king. You can usually count on Scanran mages to take each other out, fighting in service of whoever’s calling himself king this week. But I can see Hadensra becoming a more longterm threat to us.” He trailed his long fingers over the front of Alex’s tunic. “You should take this off, you know, to keep the velvet looking nice.”

“Oh yes,” said Alex, amused, “we mustn’t ruin the velvet.”

“I met him once,” Thom remarked, climbing off of him and settling back among the pillows. “Hadensra, I mean. It happened in the City of the Gods, when I was still a boy. He was there to visit one of the masters, but he spoke to me briefly. I didn’t much care for him.” He watched intently as Alex removed his tunic.

Alex smiled at him. “You don’t really care for most people.”

“That’s not true. I like you well enough. You should take off your shirt, too,” he added quickly, because sincerity always made him uncomfortable.

Alex obliged him. “I’m so sick of politics,” he confessed.

“What a shame, then, that you’re always surrounded by politics, like a fish with a horror of water.” Thom leaned over and kissed him again. “Hopefully you can manage to forget about it for one night.”

In Persopolis, the squires were given a reprieve from their serving duties at the insistence of the governor, which was a pleasant change. At banquets, Kel sat with her knight-master, or with her friends and their knight-masters on the evenings when Lord Alexander was seated with the king, enjoying Bazhir cuisine and listening to the conversations flowing around her.

“If you ask me,” said Sacherell of Wellam one evening, nearly a week after they had arrived in the city, “we should be heading southwest instead. Skip Pearlmouth and just move straight on to Port Legann.”

“I don’t see why,” said Merric’s knight-master, Weston of Macayhill. He was a younger man than Sir Sacherell, tall and well-muscled. He set down his belt knife, reaching for his wine glass instead. “We’d spend nearly the same amount of time in the desert. I just pray we’re not attacked there.”

“It isn’t the Bazhir who worry me, really,” replied Sacherell. “It’s Pearlmouth itself. Last winter, I spent a few months on the Tyran border.”

“Lucky you,” said Neal, seated beside Kel. “I bet it’s nicer in the winter.”

“No, it rains for months on end.” He tore off a corner of his flatbread and used it to scoop up some of the mashed eggplant on his plate. “And the people there are — tense. The city’s a tinderbox these days. Apparently some Bazhir poet they admire down there had died recently, in combat against the king’s army.”

“I remember hearing about that,” said Sir Weston thoughtfully. “Didn’t the army have to come in and break up the crowds of mourners?”

“They did. Suffice it to say, I don’t foresee us receiving a warm welcome in Pearlmouth.”

“Well, hopefully things have calmed down since then.”

Kel ate in silence, remembering their reception when they had first ridden into Persopolis. Most of the city’s inhabitants had crowded the streets, merrily waving blue banners and trying to catch a glimpse of the king, but she had seen the Bazhir standing at the back of the crowds, their faces like stone.

After the banquet, they watched a troupe of tumblers perform. It was late when Kel left the great hall, and Cleon followed her out into the corridor. “I’m competing in the archery competition tomorrow,” he explained to their friends as he left the table. “I should get some rest.”

He walked with Kel toward the wing where she was staying, though she knew he and Inness were housed elsewhere in the city. “I know you’ve been busy yourself lately,” he said quietly, when she looked questioningly at him, wondering why he was taking such a roundabout path back to his bed. “But I can’t help feeling like you’re avoiding me for some reason.”

He looked miserable, and she felt a sharp pang of sympathy for him. “I didn’t mean to,” she said, starting to blush. “It’s just — my knight-master thinks you’re flirting, when you call me silly names. _I_ know you’re not, but he pointed out the way it looks.” Saying those words out loud, she felt like a fool, but it was better than leaving something unspoken between her and a friend. He was right: she’d been avoiding him since that conversation with Lord Alexander, not entirely consciously, and now she felt ashamed of that.

Cleon smiled ruefully. “It would be unwelcome, then, if I flirted with you?”

“I don’t know if I want to flirt with _anyone_ right now.” She had been turning that over in her mind since their last day at Fief Eldorne, and come to the conclusion that romance seemed like more trouble than it was worth. “I want to concentrate on earning my shield. Romance would be — it would be a distraction.”

“What’s wrong with being distracted sometimes?” Then he sighed. “I’m sorry. You already told me how you feel, and what you say makes sense.”

So her knight-master had been right after all. “ _Were_ you flirting, for true?”

He smiled shakily at her again, looking about as comfortable with this conversation as she felt. “Of course I was. If it’s unwelcome, I’ll stop. But please, let me know if you ever change your mind. Good night, Kel.” He saluted her, and then turned and walked away.

She stood there for a moment, until her racing heart was a little calmer and her face a little less red, and then she made her way back to the suite she shared with Lord Alexander. There was no sign of her knight-master, which didn’t improve her mood; she could have done with the distraction of homework.

At least she had her practice glaive with her. She cleared away some of the sitting room furniture, did one of her longer pattern dances, and went to bed.

The next morning, her conversation with Cleon seemed more like a strange dream than anything that had really happened. To feel more grounded, she did a quick sword drill before she dressed for breakfast. The sitting room was empty again; either Lord Alexander was still asleep in his bedroom or perhaps Lord Thom’s, or he had already gone down to the great hall.

On her way down to breakfast, she nearly collided in a corridor with Joren of Stone Mountain. “Mindelan,” he said icily, by way of a greeting.

“Excuse me,” she replied, trying to get past him.

He held his ground for a moment, staring her down, and then stepped aside. No fist struck her back as she walked away, as she’d half expected.

Shortly after they’d arrived in Persopolis, she had taken Lord Alexander’s riding boots to be resoled. As she was returning from the castle cobblers’ workshop with them, a man hailed her. Kel paused, trying to figure out whether she’d ever seen him before. He was in his early thirties, younger than most of her knight-master’s friends, and tall enough that she thought she’d remember him if they had met before.

“Keladry of Mindelan, is it?” he said brightly. “Hildrec of Meron. I’ve heard that you’re a skilled swordsman — swordswoman, I suppose — for a squire. I’d like to test your skills, if I may. On the dueling grounds tomorrow?”

“No, thank you,” said Kel, who felt that dueling ought to be reserved for serious matters. She wasn’t bored enough with the Grand Progress yet to start putting her name on the board for matches everywhere they went, as Lord Alexander did. Besides, she had too much to do these last few days in Persopolis.

The man’s face fell. “Really?”

“I’d rather not. Sorry, sir. Good morning,” she added politely, and continued on her way.

She saw him again a few hours later, as she was taking her knight-master’s mail shirt to the armory to have a broken link in it repaired. “My apologies, squire,” said Hildrec of Meron, stepping out of a doorway suddenly and slapping her with his riding glove.

“ _Really_?” she cried, startled into a reaction. He had seen that her hands were full and taken advantage of that.

“If you had accepted the match, I wouldn’t have had to do that,” he pointed out, in horribly reasonable tones.

“I didn’t want to.”

He shook his head slowly, uncomprehending. “Well, you’ll have to accept a duel now, unless you want everyone saying you have no honor.”

“Oh, I have honor,” she snapped. “More than you do.”

“I’ll enter our names with the tournament clerk,” he said. “You can name the penalty, you know.”

She knew, and she also knew better than to assume she’d win again. Better to name a lower penalty than last time. “Five gold crowns if you lose,” she said, and then stalked off toward the armory.

Ansil of Groten had been uncomfortable with low strikes, and he’d had a habit of hesitating slightly before he attacked. Hildrec of Meron, she found, was very different. Instead of being slow to attack, he moved too often, like a hot-blooded horse. He reacted to nearly every experiment she tried at the beginning of the duel, every feint or beat of her blade against his. Once she knew how he was likely to react to a given movement, it was relatively easy to use his skittishness against him.

To his credit, Hildrec took his defeat with relative grace, saluting her with another crestfallen expression. “I don’t suppose you’ll agree to another match?”

She was thoroughly annoyed with him, but at least he hadn’t threatened her like Ansil of Groten had. “Try me again in a few months, but don’t slap me with a glove this time.”

As he walked away, someone behind her snorted. She turned, and saw Lord Alexander struggling not to laugh. “Oh dear,” he said, as he handed her a cloth and a bottle of water. “I won’t ask if you’re ready to start putting your name on the board.”

“I know,” she said, wiping the blood from her blade. “Matches are safer than challenges. I’ll probably accept the next one that’s offered to me. I’ve learned _that_ lesson, at least.”

“But you’re making so much money from the challenges,” he retorted, clapping her on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you something to eat. You’ll have to start packing right after lunch, I’m afraid. We’re leaving Persopolis tomorrow.”

Kel blinked at him, startled. “But we’re not scheduled to leave until the day after.”

He shook his head. “I found out this morning that the king wants us to ride ahead. We’re to leave at dawn.”

Raising her eyebrows, she followed him away from the dueling grounds. “With a squad of the King’s Own, I assume?”

“And a mage.” He sighed. “It looks like Roger decided to listen to me after all. He’s sending us to treat with the Bazhir who live along the Great Road South.”

The sun was just beginning to rise over the eastern wall as they rode out of the city the next day, with the King’s Own and a mage from the university in Corus. It was a cold, cloudless morning; with the road south bathed in a soft, rosy light, the desert looked to Kel like something out of a dream. The day grew warmer as it wore on, with only a gentle breeze to dispel some of the heat. “Ill weather,” the mage remarked, frowning up at the clear blue sky. “No cloud cover at all.”

Her name was Hilma Cloudhammer, and she was a pale, plump woman in her late forties, with blonde hair that was beginning to turn gray. Kel recalled serving her at several banquets over the past few years, but they had never been formally introduced. As she watched, curious, the mage waved one hand over her head, and the air a few yards above their party thickened and darkened, shading the packed earth underfoot. It kept pace with them as they rode on, like a floating awning.

Shortly before noon, Lord Alexander spotted a small oasis ahead of them, just off the road. They stopped there to water the horses and rest briefly. When the horses had finished drinking, Kel knelt by the edge of the water to test it with the cork of her water bottle. As the cork glowed, showing the water was safe to drink, she heard a footfall behind her. She rose, turning in one fluid motion, her hand on the hilt of her sword.

Hilma Cloudhammer stood a safe distance back, smiling wryly. “The water is safe enough to drink, it’s true, but I don’t much care for the taste. Would you like me to purify it further?”

Kel stood up, letting go of her sword, and bowed her thanks to the mage. “I would, mistress, thank you.” She handed Hilma her water bottle.

“So, I take it you’re to be my chaperone on our journey south?” murmured Hilma, as she moved her hand over the bottle. Pale blue fire glimmered between her fingers; one corner of her mouth quirked up. “You’re to protect me from all these brutish men?”

Kel grinned. “And here I thought you were _my_ chaperone.”

Hilma was studying the water bottle thoughtfully. “This is well made, but of late there’s been an improvement with the spellwork we use for the corks. You’ve no idea how many little creatures are lurking in bodies of water. We’re still discovering all of them. You may want to get the spellwork on this updated.”

Their party ate a cold lunch beside the banks of the spring, and Kel was able to take a short nap in the shade of a date palm.

It was late afternoon when their party encountered Bazhir riders. Four men on horseback waited on a nearby dune, backlit by the low sun. To Kel’s eyes, it looked as though they’d been expecting company. As the Tortallans approached, they nudged their mounts into a canter, kicking up a spray of sand behind them. They halted on the road several yards ahead, well within shouting range.

Lord Alexander reined in, raising a hand. Behind him, Kel and the men of the King’s Own came to a halt. Pitching his voice for the battlefield, he called out to the Bazhir in their language. “I am Alexander of Tirragen, son of Isra bint Samad, daughter of the previous headman of the Tribe of the Dancing Scorpion, and first cousin to the current headman. My friends and I seek safe passage through your lands, for ourselves and for the progress which follows us. We will take nothing; we will harm no one. Will you let us pass?”

“The progress which follows you,” repeated one of the Bazhir riders, in the same language. He was a big, broad-shouldered man with graying black hair and a trim mustache, sitting astride a dappled gray mare. “You mean to tell us, knight of the northern king, that hundreds intend to ride through our lands in your wake? Making camp where they will, using up what little water we have, befouling the sands?”

The younger man on his right, who rode a graceful white horse, said something quietly to him.

“My brother would remind me that we have been asked to let you pass through unharmed,” the first man explained, not looking very happy about it. “That it would be unwise to attack a party of thirteen trespassers, let alone a party of hundreds.”

“Asked by whom?” said Lord Alexander.

In response, the big man turned his horse, preparing to ride away. “Come, knight of the northern king. He wishes to speak with you. We will grant you and your friends hospitality for the night.”

George arrived in Persopolis in time to see the Grand Progress depart. He watched them go, waving cheerily at the king and queen as they rode past, enjoying the royal pomp and frivolity of the procession. At one point, his eyes met those of Thom of Trebond, whom he’d briefly encountered the day before, in a tavern near the city’s eastern gate. George winked at him now, as Thom struggled not to react. All around them, scores of royal blue banners waved under a bright blue sky.

When they were gone, and the gates of the city had closed behind them, George wandered away from the crowds. Whistling cheerfully, he took a roundabout tour of the side streets of Persopolis, until he found the teahouse he was looking for. He went inside, ordered a glass of mint tea, and sat down to wait.

Fifteen minutes later, a pair of Bazhir mages found him. He wore the brass cloak pin they’d been instructed to look for, depicting a crow in flight; when they approached him, he winked.

“You’re right on time,” he said, as they sat down across from him.

He took a sip of his tea, surveying them through half-lidded eyes. They both watched him with the same appraising curiosity. They were about the same age, roughly a decade younger than him, with the look of people who spent most of their time on the road. The man was lean and handsome, with a trim beard and an easy smile, his burnoose dusty from travel. The woman was half a head shorter, with a lighter complexion and gray-brown eyes above the veil that concealed the lower half of her face.

“Before we begin,” said the woman in lightly accented Common Eastern. She reached into one of the pockets of her loose robe and produced a small pouch. “I hope you don’t mind,” she added, opening the pouch and reaching inside.

Keeping his eyes on her face, George saw a reddish-violet flare in his peripheral vision. “Eyebright, I suppose?”

“Something very like it,” she replied. “Given the stakes, we wanted to make sure you were telling the truth.”

“I understand perfectly.”

“George, is it?” said the man beside her.

“That’s right. And you are?” They had agreed on first names only, with the intermediary who had set up their meeting, but true first names.

“I am Kourrem,” she said, “and this is my brother, Ishak.”

She was lying, he could tell, though not about their names. He decided not to quibble over family relations. If it suited them to pretend to be brother and sister when they were traveling together, it wasn’t his place to argue; besides, it wouldn’t be hard to learn more about them both.

“I’m told you have something for us?” she said.

George reached into the saddlebag that sat beside him on the bench, and pulled out a far larger, heavier pouch than she had. He passed it across the table to the mages. “Untraceable coin,” he explained as Ishak loosened the ties holding the pouch closed to peer inside. “There’s not as much there as I wanted to bring you, but it was what I could get my hands on.”

He reached into the saddlebag again, this time producing a leather carrying case for rolled documents. “Information that may be of interest to you,” he said, passing them across the table to Kourrem. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Ishak warded the bag of coin with greenish-blue fire before slipping it into his own saddlebag.

Kourrem opened the carrying case, drawing out a sheet of parchment marked with pinpricks. She surveyed the marks with interest. “And the key?”

George passed a small book of Bazhir poetry to Ishak, who noted the author with a raised eyebrow. “It’s a testament to my dedication to your cause that I’m willing to give that up,” said George. “Originally I was going to put it in something dull like _A Guide to Lake Region Aquaculture_ , but I thought it might look suspicious if you were caught with that.”

“We’ll take good care of it,” said Ishak. “I suppose it’s a harder cipher to crack if you don’t read both Bazhir and Common?”

“A bit harder,” said George, who was fairly proud of this particular cipher. It had taken him a while.

“Why are you doing this, exactly?” asked Ishak, his dark eyes hardening with suspicion. “You’re not Bazhir, and your accent is pure Corus.”

George took a sip of his tea, thinking that over. Of course they’d want to be on more equal footing; he knew the motivations of the Bazhir, after all. They thought they’d have an easier time living under the king in Barzun than the king in Tortall, and they were probably right. From what he’d heard, their prospective king knew the Voice of the Tribes personally, and respected his judgment.

“It’s simple, really,” he said finally. “I hate Roger, and it pleases me to help swindle an entire country out from under him.”

Ishak and Kourrem glanced at each other, and then the latter shrugged. “Then we want the same thing,” she said.

“It looks like the Voice was right about you,” said Ishak. He turned to Kourrem. “Well?”

With a rustle of cloth, she got up from the table, and George saw from her eyes that she was smiling. “Safe travels, stranger. If you have need of us again, you know how to find us.”

“The same to you, mistress,” he replied, nodding to her. He watched them leave together, vanishing through the street door into the bright spring morning.


	16. A Road Over Shifting Sands

The Bazhir village lay roughly a mile east of the Great Road South, near an oasis whose date palms Kel had taken for a mirage from the road. Their tents were arranged in a rough circle around a well, with a fire pit at the southern end of the village. Judging by the number of tents, about fifteen families resided there, with one tent set aside for young bachelors. Near the fire pit were the two largest tents: the one belonging to the headman and his family, and the one occupied by the tribe’s shaman and the small temple he maintained.

The tribe was called the Windchasers, Kel learned, from listening to her knight-master’s conversation with the leader of the small group of riders who had met them on the road. The man’s own name was Farid ibn Tariq; he gave it up, a little reluctantly, as his horse fell into step with Lord Alexander’s and his riders fanned out to surround the rest of their party.

They rode in silence for several minutes before Lord Alexander spoke, nodding toward the distant foothills that lay to the northeast, beyond the rise and fall of windblown sand. “Does the channel system extend this far south?” he asked, still speaking Bazhir. “The village where my mother was born had a mother well.”

Farid glanced at him. “No,” he replied, after a brief pause. “The oasis is fed by the aquifer under Persopolis. It extends this far south.”

He took them to see the village headman, a small, stout man in his early fifties by the name of Nasir Haidar, who met them outside a pen of freshly sheared sheep. “Well met, travelers,” he said, in lightly accented Common. “I expect you wish to rest before supper. Farid, would you show Lord Alexander’s men to the bachelors’ tent?”

Farid inclined his head, his expression as unreadable as ever. “Of course,” he said, and beckoned to the men of the King’s Own. Kel watched them leave together, wondering uneasily how many young warriors lived here, and how many mages. At any rate, it was clear that their small party was outnumbered.

“My mother has graciously offered to host the women of your party,” said the headman, leading the rest of them away from the sheep. “And I would be honored, Lord Alexander, if you were to share my family’s tent tonight.”

Lord Alexander tensed visibly under his armor. “We are honored by your hospitality, Nasir Haidar,” he said, with a frown. “But Keladry serves me, as my squire. I’m not certain a warrior is best placed in the women’s tent.”

The headman glanced at her, looking puzzled, as Kel did her best to keep her face blank. She was a cold, serene lake on a still day; her knight-master was, evidently, a madman. She cleared her throat. “My lord, I don’t mind being put with Mistress Cloudhammer. I’ll be right next door, after all. I shouldn’t have any trouble performing my duties.”

“In truth, I would be grateful for the company,” said Hilma Cloudhammer before Lord Alexander could reply. She smiled brightly at him, but there was a warning look in her blue eyes.

Lord Alexander looked momentarily uncertain, but then he relaxed. “Very well. Please, forgive me,” he added, to the headman.

She was unloading their saddlebags in front of the headman’s tent some twenty minutes later when Lord Alexander emerged from it. He stood under the awning for a moment, watching her silently, before saying in a low voice, “You and Hilma were right, of course. It’s better not to antagonize these people while we enjoy their hospitality.”

Kel waited. He seemed to have something else he wanted to say.

“I don’t like seeing you disrespected, that’s all. You’re a warrior. You ought to be treated like one.”

That bothered her, though she knew he had meant it as a compliment. “I’m also a girl, my lord,” she pointed out. “I don’t mind people taking note of that, unless they’re using it as a reason to treat me poorly. And I don’t think sharing a tent with the headman’s mother is being treated poorly.”

“Fair enough. Besides, I doubt there would have been room for you in the headman’s tent. Apparently the Voice of the Tribes is in residence as well.”

Kel froze in the act of unstrapping one of her bags from Peachblossom’s saddle. Peachblossom snaked his head around and bit her gently on the bicep, urging her to get back to what she was doing. “The Voice of the Tribes is here?” she repeated, tugging her arm out from between Peachblossom’s teeth. “Stop that,” she told her horse.

Lord Alexander smiled. “Apparently he knew we were coming. He wants to talk with me after dinner.”

“Just you, my lord?”

“Just me. Don’t worry about it, Kel,” he told her, slinging one of his saddlebags over his shoulder. “Go ahead and start tending to the horses, and I’ll bring my gear inside.”

As she was grooming his destrier a little while later, Kel realized she had company again. Two Bazhir children, who looked like brother and sister, watched her from the entrance of a nearby tent. “Hello,” she said to them in Bazhir. She wanted to speak it as often as she could here, though she knew more complex sentences would give her trouble. She had done well in her language classes, but she’d had very little practice conversing with native speakers.

The boy, the older of the two, smiled shyly back at her. The girl crept forward, evidently more interested in the horses than in Kel. She stopped just outside of biting range of War Hammer, who snorted restlessly at her.

“Careful,” said Kel, reaching for the destrier’s reins. “She gets mean sometimes.”

“Run, run!” called an unfamiliar male voice, scattering the sparrows. Kel looked up, and saw a blunt-nosed man in his early forties striding toward them, a smile upon his face. “Shoo, before the horses get you!”

Giggling, the girl seized her brother’s hand and trotted away. Before they rounded the corner of the nearest tent, the children glanced back.

“Run away from their fearsome hooves and teeth!” When the children were out of sight, the man turned his attention to Kel. “My name is Qasim,” he said to her, switching to Common. “I am to show you where you may keep your horses for the night.”

“Thank you, sir,” she replied, in Bazhir. “I’m Kel.”

He smiled again; he had the look of someone who smiled often. “Ah, you speak Bazhir.”

“Some,” she replied. It was heartening to find that she could understand what he said, though her own replies were halting.

“Whichever you would prefer,” said Qasim. “Your horses have grown feathers.”

She glanced up, and saw that her sparrows had returned. Most of them clustered along Kasumi’s mane, though a few had landed on Halberd. “They adopted me, sort of,” she explained. “I used to have more, but most of them stayed behind in the capital.”

He reached a hand into his pocket. When he brought it out again, Kel saw a small mountain of seed on his palm, which he offered to her sparrows. “I like birds,” he confessed. Kel grinned at him.

“We keep our horses here to protect them from raiders,” he said, as he led her to the small paddock in the middle of the tent circle, near the village well. Seeing the graceful horses gathered inside the fence, shaded by an awning, Kel hesitated.

“It would be better to keep the warhorses separate, sir,” she replied, glancing at Peachblossom. “Especially this lad here.”

“I’d thought that might be the case. I’ve encountered Tortallan warhorses before. In that case, we can picket them a safe distance away from the other animals, and ask our shaman to ward them.”

When the horses were settled, Kel went to refill her water bottle from the well, Shiro trotting beside her. They were on their way back toward the headman’s mother’s tent when she heard a familiar voice.

“— not at all my strong suit,” she heard Hilma Cloudhammer saying in Common Eastern. She sat with three Bazhir women outside a tent overlooking the date palms. “You would do better to ask Linna Fuller that question. She teaches thread magic at King’s University in Corus. And let me tell you, she didn’t have an easy time getting the job. Harailt of Aili had to fight for thread magic to be added to the university curriculum.”

“Why?” asked one of the Bazhir women, in accented Common. Under her graceful hands a loom beat continuously, richly dyed threads coming together in an intricate pattern before Kel’s eyes. Kel found herself staring at the cloth, wondering what it would feel like to make something so beautiful with her own hands.

“Oh, most of the noblemen don’t think it’s useful,” said Hilma. “You understand, I’m sure. Noblemen don’t learn to spin thread the moment they’re out of their cradles, so how useful can it possibly be? Never mind that a hedgewitch with a bit of yarn in her hands can stop an army in its tracks.”

From their eyes, Kel could see the Bazhir women were smiling. “What is your speciality?” asked the one who had spoken before, the weaver.

“Battle magic,” Hilma replied. Kel hid a smile, remembering her joke about wanting Kel to protect her from the brutish men of their party.

The mage glanced up, shielding her eyes from the setting sun. “Hello, Keladry. Will you join us? We’re discussing fiber arts and magic.”

Kel knew very little about either subject, but she had finished with her duties for now, and she wanted to be friendly. “Of course.”

“This is Keladry of Mindelan, Lord Alexander’s squire,” Hilma explained to the Bazhir women. She introduced each of them to Kel in turn — Safiya, who was the village midwife; Noura, the headman’s wife; and a young woman named Hadil, who already had a reputation for being one of the best weavers in the village. It was Hadil’s hands that moved so gracefully over the loom.

“His squire?” asked Noura, offering her hand for Shiro to sniff. Her voice was low and musical, reminding Kel of her mother’s voice. There was a note of amusement in her dark eyes, as well as skepticism. “Is that common in the north?”

“Not anymore,” said Kel, as Shiro flopped down on the ground beside her, inviting the women to scratch his belly. “It was, once. Now it’s just me, and one other girl who’s four years behind me. She started her training in September.”

“Have the men of your people given you much trouble?” asked Safiya. The oldest of the three Bazhir women, she wore her veil wrapped and pinned a little differently from the others, more loosely like a bright cloud of fabric about her head. “In my experience, men do not like seeing women display knowledge of a subject they consider to be their domain.”

“Not all of them. But I won’t say it’s been easy.”

Safiya nodded briskly. “It’s probably good for them.”

Kel smiled at her. They sat for a while in silence, watching palm fronds sway in the cool breeze that had sprung up, and after a while she turned to Hadil. “What are you making, if I may ask? It’s beautiful.”

Hadil’s eyes lit up. “It’s going to be a bridal dress for my sister.”

As the sun sank lower in the sky, Kel did her best to remember everything she had learned about how fine clothes were made, from her childhood and from talking with Lalasa over the past few years, so that she could follow the other women’s conversation. Hadil was interested in hearing what she knew of Yamani textile production, but she could only remember a few scattered details. She was grateful for Hilma, who had grown up on the border with Scanra and Galla, and learned to spin and weave there alongside her cousins.

They had been talking for just over half an hour when Safiya stood up, her skirts rustling softly around her legs. Beside her, Hadil had begun to put away her weaving. “Please excuse us,” Safiya said to Kel and Hilma. “It is nearly the Moment of the Voice. We’ll see you both at supper, I’m sure.”

Kel watched them leave, evidently headed for the fire pit near the headman’s tent. “The Moment of the Voice?” she said, when they were out of earshot.

Hilma shrugged. “Some kind of group prayer, I think. I don’t know the details.”

She leaned back, gazing out at the sand dunes that extended west toward the horizon, lit like fire in the light of the setting sun. The desert sky was vast, and awash now in shades of orange and rose, deepening to blue high overhead. “Beautiful out here,” said the mage, after a few minutes. “I’m sure it’s unbearable in the summertime.”

“You don’t care for summer, Mistress Cloudhammer?”

“Not in the slightest. Where I grew up, there would still be snow this time of year.” She glanced at Kel. “Where you grew up, too, unless I’m mistaken.”

Kel nodded. “Do you miss it?”

Hilma smiled. “Only in the summer.”

The men and women of the tribe had left them alone by the fire with a pot of mint tea and a bowl of dates. The night was still, cool rather than cold, with the moon an upturned crescent hanging low in the eastern sky like a smile. Alex watched in silence as the Voice of the Tribes poured them each a cup of tea.

Danyal of Pearlmouth was a lean, handsome man in his early forties, roughly Alex’s age. He wore his beard short and his black hair long and tied back. His burnoose was plain, as were the shirt and breeches he wore under them; if they hadn’t been introduced, Alex might have mistaken him for just another Bazhir rider.

He passed one of the cups to Alex. Alex brought it to his face, breathing in the aromatic steam, knowing it was still too hot to drink. “You don’t live in Persopolis,” he remarked. “That’s unusual for the Voice of the Tribes, isn’t it?”

“Unusual, but not unheard of.” Danyal blew over the surface of his tea. “I prefer to roam from tribe to tribe, living among my people and learning from them. Getting to know them face to face. I’m not the first Voice to do so. Besides, things have changed among the Bazhir since your mother was a girl.”

“Have they?”

“In the Tribe of the Bloody Hawk, a woman is the current shaman. Her name is Kara Seif,” he added when Alex looked up at him, surprised. “Not long after I became the Voice of the Tribes, she called up a storm which killed the previous shaman. It was an accident. The previous shaman had refused to train her and the other Gifted children of the tribe, calling them cursed. He had always been afraid that another mage would best him in a fair fight.”

Alex suppressed a shudder at the thought of living among untrained mages powerful enough to call up a storm. “His own fault, then. They let her become the next shaman?”

“They had no choice,” replied the Voice. “You know our laws. In truth, this isn’t the first time a woman has become a Bazhir shaman — only the first time in over a hundred years. But there was a second girl among the Bloody Hawk who had the Gift, as well as a boy. Kara insisted on making sure they were trained as well.”

“Sensible of her.”

“I agree,” said Danyal, blowing across the surface of his tea again. “And she’s made her mark on our history. There will be other female shamans in the near future.”

Alex sipped his tea, wincing a little at the heat, and tried to ignore the aura of prophecy that hovered over the Voice, coloring so much of their conversation already. “On the road to Persopolis,” he said, “a Bazhir rider passed on a warning from you, against proceeding south through the desert.”

“That was from me, yes. Please, have a date.” Danyal gestured to the bowl between them. “Were I leading your king’s progress, I wouldn’t choose to proceed straight through the desert. I would skirt the mountains to the east, if I were determined to visit Pearlmouth, or head west to Port Legann. The desert is harsh in all seasons, and not everyone who lives here feels friendly toward your king.”

“He’s your king as well,” said Alex, obediently taking a date and biting into it.

Danyal raised an eyebrow. “Is he?”

“To me, that warning sounded awfully like a threat.”

Danyal shook his head, and reached for a date as well. “I would not threaten you or your king. I’ve warned my people against attacking the Grand Progress, if your king insists on proceeding to Pearlmouth along the Great Road South. The time is not right for war.”

Alex took another cautious sip of his tea. “That implies there’s a time for war with the south.”

Danyal smiled faintly. “I know something of the northern lords, you know.”

“Of course you do. Your cousin is Lord Pearlmouth, isn’t he?”

“Just so,” he replied. “I’ve heard it said that the present Lord Tirragen has no taste for political games. But political games, I think, are very much like duels.”

Alex reached for another date, considering that. The kind of man who chose to spend his life wandering aimlessly around the desert, he thought, was probably not the kind of man who liked getting to the point quickly. “Go on.”

“You make an action; your opponent makes an action. You watch how they react to what you do, just as they are watching your reaction. If you lose your patience, you may strike too early; if you are too cautious, you may strike too late. Both actions can easily be fatal. You wait for exactly the right moment, and then you strike.”

“You’re not wrong,” replied Alex, “except for one thing. Duels are actually enjoyable.”

Danyal laughed. “War will come, in time,” he said, his smile fading. “A small Gift of prophecy is given to each Voice of the Tribes.”

Under the burnoose the headman had given him, the back of Alex’s neck prickled. Prophecy had always unsettled him. “You see the future, do you?” He remembered his mother telling him that the Voice of the Tribes always foresaw his own death, and thus did not fear it.

“Not as many people would think of it. I see the path we are on as a road leading over shifting sands. Some of what I’ve seen may not come to pass.” He raised his cup to his lips, and drank. “I have seen other possible futures as well, over the years,” he added, when he set the cup down again. “Ones that I know for certain won’t come to pass, but might have, in some other world.”

Alex was silent for a long moment, considering that last idea. “What happens in those other futures?” he asked finally, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

The Voice gazed into the fire, looking thoughtful. “There is one version of events where I died as a child, in a riding accident. In a different version of events, another man was crowned king in the north, and chosen to be the Voice of the Tribes in preference to me. Another version in which he died young, during a plague, and I was chosen. A version where he lived, yet I was chosen instead by the last Voice. Yet another version of events where we both died before reaching manhood. And so on.”

The array of possibilities stretched out before Alex, like two mirrors facing one another. He didn’t like it. “They would have made a Tortallan king the Voice?” he asked, deciding to focus on that possibility. Surely Danyal meant Jon, who had been of an age with him. They would have made Jon the Voice of the Tribes? Alex couldn’t imagine that.

Danyal smiled. “My predecessor felt that we Bazhir were locked in a centuries-old war with Tortallans, and that in the end we must integrate peacefully with them. He felt that the crown prince was his best option. Of course, when the prince died as a young man, he was forced to make a different choice.”

 _Forgive me, Jon._ “I knew the prince then,” said Alex. “I don’t think he would have made a good Voice.”

“Perhaps not, but it was not my choice to make.”

Alex watched the dancing fire, considering this. As he thought back to those last few years before Jon’s death, another question occurred to him. He didn’t want to ask it. But he didn’t think he could bid the Voice good night and walk away without having heard the answer. “What happens to me?” he asked. “In that version of events, the one where Jon becomes the Voice, where am I now?”

Danyal’s smile had faded slightly, becoming something a little sadder, but no less kind. “You?” he said, and studied his face for a moment in silence. “You’re long dead, I’m afraid.”

Alex nodded. It was the answer he’d expected. “Is there anything we can do to avoid a war with the south?”

“Certainly,” replied the Voice, raising his eyebrows at the question. “Talk to people, and listen. Negotiate, and make treaties. So long as your king is not determined to hang onto lands that are not his by right, war is preventable.”

This was going to throw the Council of Lords into chaos. “I’ll see what I can do,” said Alex, already dreading the meetings he knew he’d have to attend. “I’ll talk to Roger about it. But I can’t promise he’ll listen.”

Nearly three weeks after leaving Persopolis, they reached the salt flat that lay to the north of Pearlmouth. At first glance Kel took it for snow, an impossible sight. They paused at the edge of that vast expanse of white, where the ground began to slope down toward the salt glistening under the late April sun. In the distance, she could see the Southern Wall, the line of mountains that ran along the coast; to the east lay the lowlands of the Drell River delta.

Sergeant Balim, the leader of their squad, looked doubtfully at the salt flat. “Quickest way to Fief Jesslaw is straight across that, my lord. But it looks like it would take half a day to cross, and I doubt there’s much in the way of water.”

“You’d be right,” said Lord Alexander, nudging his horse into a walk again. “We’ll keep to the road. We’re in no hurry — the progress will be at least a week behind us, likely more.”

Kel sent up a quick, silent prayer for her friends who had stayed with the Grand Progress, still making its way across the desert at a glacial pace, and followed her knight-master along the Great Road South, which skirted the western edge of the salt flat. The rest of the King’s Own fell in behind her, with Sergeant Balim and Hilma Cloudhammer flanking Lord Alexander.

They had been riding for several minutes when Kel noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned — at first she thought it was a flock of birds — and then the dark shapes gliding over the salt flat resolved themselves into Stormwings. “Sir,” she called, and Lord Alexander looked up.

“They’re heading in our direction,” he observed.

“Trouble in Pearlmouth, maybe,” suggested Sergeant Balim.

“Maybe.”

With their slow pace, so as not to exhaust the horses, it wasn’t long before the Stormwings caught up with them. The leader of the flock — whose pale, weathered face reminded Kel vaguely of Eda Bell, and whose enormous nest of hair, adorned with several small bones, reminded her of an untidier version of some of the more elaborate Yamani hairstyles she’d seen as a child — circled low overhead, watching them with keen attention. Lord Alexander raised his visor, looking up at her. “Where are you bound for?” he asked.

She turned lazily in the air, sunlight glinting off her wings. “You were raised right,” she said, looking amused. “Plenty of other knights would have tried to shoot me.” She paused for a moment, looking straight at Kel, who had reached for her longbow. Then she returned her attention to Lord Alexander, saying, “We’re headed for Fief Kendrach.”

He frowned. “What’s happening at Fief Kendrach?”

“You mean you don’t know? Carthaki raiders have had the place under siege since last night.”

Lord Alexander glanced at Sergeant Balim, who reminded him quietly, “The progress is at least a week behind us.”

“We could break the siege and get to Jesslaw days before they’re set to meet up with us,” Lord Alexander agreed. “Kendrach is less than a day’s ride southwest. The passes should be clear —”

“We only have one squad.” He glanced up, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “If there are raiders at all, they’d certainly outnumber us,” he added in a low voice.

“If we assume there aren’t, because of where that news came from, we risk abandoning Kendrach to ruin,” Lord Alexander pointed out. “We would go cautiously. If there are raiders, we may be able to surprise them. And we have a mage.” He nodded to Hilma, who had been watching their discussion with interest.

“I can certainly improve our odds,” she said. She looked up at the Stormwing, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Do you happen to know how many Carthaki raiders there are?”

“Oh, at least a few hundred. Usually they attack with more than one ship.”

“If we die,” said Sergeant Balim under his breath, “Sir Glaisdan will be very cross.”

“If we die, I take full responsibility,” said Lord Alexander. He turned to look at Kel; there was a fierce light in his eyes. “What do you think, squire?”

She felt an answering thrill run through her. “If I were under siege, I would have tried to get word to the nearest fief or town. By the time we get there, we might have reinforcements. Is Pearlmouth the nearest big settlement?”

“Fief Jonajin is a little closer, but either way you have to ride through the mountains. This time of year, there’s always a chance of flooding or mud slides to slow you down. Are we in range for you to send messages to Pearlmouth and Jonajin?” he asked Hilma.

“Yes, but we’d have to stop and light a fire. I’d rather wait until we get beyond the desert.”

He glanced at Sergeant Balim, who nodded. “Ride for Kendrach, then.”

Fief Kendrach lay sprawled over the foothills overlooking a narrow bay. They reached it the next day, in late afternoon, after stopping on the other side of the mountain pass the night before. From the rise above the castle, where the trees were thick, they could see the raiders’ galleys in the distance, anchored just inside the breakwater, and a column of smoke rising over a burning fishing village.

The raiders themselves, those who had come ashore, had set up camp in the woods around the castle. Kel’s small group, their tack and armor muffled with cloth, crept onto the ridge just above them to wait. Hilma had contacted mages in Pearlmouth and Jonajin, who had each promised to send any men-at-arms that could be spared. In the meantime, they would fight in the shadows.

The first time Kel nocked an arrow to pick off one of the raiders on watch, who had chosen a spot where he was visible from above, Lord Alexander stopped her. “Wait,” he said, his voice barely audible over the wind. “He’s about to come off watch. Kill his replacement if you can get a clear shot, to delay the moment when someone sounds the alarm.”

He moved on, soundlessly walking the perimeter of their territory, and she returned the arrow to her quiver and settled back to wait. When the change of watch came, the next man picked a better spot at first, half hidden among the trees in the gathering dusk, but he was a pacer. She waited until he paused at the edge of a narrow gorge, and then strung her longbow again and nocked another arrow. It struck him squarely in the throat; he stumbled, falling backward into the gorge and out of sight. The crash of his body against the rocks sent up a flock of screeching birds, but no one came to check on him.

When her own watch was over and one of the men of the King’s Own came to relieve her, she returned to their campsite to eat a cold supper from what remained of their rations. “We hunted bandits in the Royal Forest like this, last summer,” Sergeant Balim told her. “A lot of backwoods fighting. Finally caught them near Arenaver in August.”

Lord Alexander was dozing before his watch, but he opened one eye now. “How many did you get, Kel?”

“Two, my lord.” She had shot the first man’s replacement, right before Symric had relieved her.

He closed his eye again. “Well done.”

Hilma had drawn a protective circle around their camp, but they lit no fires if they could help it. The raiders had two mages of their own, but they had left one of them aboard their single war barge, to assist with the catapults. The other mage was keeping close to whoever was in command of the land force: Hilma said she could feel a haze of magic around the raiders’ largest camp.

Roughly a hundred men had come ashore; over the course of the first night they killed ten. The next morning, in the gray light of a misty dawn, Hilma returned to camp with three of Sergeant Balim’s quieter men. At first no one noticed her. Then she shook off whatever magic she’d veiled herself with and said primly, “Well, one of those mages won’t trouble us any longer.”

Lord Alexander sat beside a smokeless fire, skinning a squirrel he’d caught. “You killed him?”

“Stupid man had lit a fire so he could contact the other mage, so he was distracted. I hope you don’t mean for us to eat that.”

“You’re lucky I caught it, and that we’re downwind of the raiders right now so we can risk a fire. They scared away most of the game.”

“I haven’t eaten squirrel since I was a child,” she replied, in a tone that suggested the opposite of nostalgia. “We killed five men on watch, as well as the mage. Protective circles weren’t his strong suit.”

That morning the remaining raiders moved their camp closer to the castle walls, just out of range of Lord Kendrach’s archers. As Kel and her companions moved to follow them, cautiously descending from the rise where they’d made camp, her sparrows reappeared. She paused to listen to their low chirping, frowning thoughtfully. “My lord? I think we have company.”

Lord Alexander glanced at her. “Raiders?”

“I don’t think so. They’re not sounding the alarm.”

He turned to Sergeant Balim. “They came from that direction,” he said quietly, indicating the ridge behind them. “Scouts?”

Balim signaled to Ormer and Lofren. “Go cautiously.”

Ten minutes later, they returned with two strangers dressed in muted shades of green and gray under their mail. Lord Alexander brightened when he saw them. “Jonajin?”

Ormer nodded briskly, as one of the Jonajin scouts explained, “Our force is camped just beyond the pass. My lord sent a hundred men.”

Lord Alexander glanced at Hilma, who had slipped her fingers into a small pouch of eyebright. When she nodded, he turned back to the scouts and said, “Take us back to your camp, then.”

In mid-afternoon, they reached the headland where Kendrach Castle stood, taking the raiders by surprise. After a short, pitched battle, Lord Kendrach opened his gates, admitting Lord Alexander’s small group, a few Jonajin officers, and the surviving raiders, the last of whom were promptly escorted to his dungeons. “Lord Erkan’s men, no doubt,” he remarked, as his men-at-arms took charge of them. “We’ve met before.”

One corner of Lord Alexander’s mouth quirked up. “They’re not wearing his colors.”

Lord Kendrach jerked his chin toward one of the departing raiders. “See how that one cuts his hair? That’s a northwestern Carthaki style if I ever saw one.”

After tending to the horses, Kel found the two of them on the ramparts overlooking the bay, along with Hilma Cloudhammer and Sergeant Balim, watching the raiders’ fleet in the light of the setting sun. Most of the force from Fief Jonajin had remained outside the castle gates, making camp where the raiders had and waiting to see if more of them came ashore, but their commanding officer had joined the small group assembled on the ramparts. As Kel approached, he passed his spyglass to Sergeant Balim.

“The barge drew near enough to batter the curtain wall a few times,” Lord Kendrach was saying to Lord Alexander. “Once they got too close, though, and nearly wrecked on the rocks to the north there when the tide started to ebb.”

“They have a mage aboard,” said Hilma, who stood leaning against the parapet, close enough to the edge to make Kel shudder. The wind plucked at her hair, whipping the strands that had come loose from their braid and pins. “They’d be less accurate without him.”

“I’d certainly be grateful if we no longer had to deal with him. I sent word to Pearlmouth,” Lord Kendrach went on, turning back to Lord Alexander. “Asked him to send boats if he can. Though with the king’s procession on their way, I doubt he’ll be able to spare any.” He shook his head, as if disappointed. “Erkan thinks he can get away with this just because there’s a boy on the throne.”

“Ozorne encouraged his pirate lords,” said Lord Alexander. “We’re at high tide now, aren’t we?”

Lord Kendrach nodded. “Though not peak flood yet. Ah, they’re getting bold again.”

The barge was drawing nearer, flanked by two galleys. Kel passed Lord Alexander his longbow; out of the corner of her eye, she saw a gathering cloud of pale blue fire. “They’re readying the catapults,” Lord Kendrach observed, as one of the men-at-arms stationed on the ramparts blew his horn.

A cry of “Fall back!” and another horn blast — a flash of pale blue — and the ground shook. Kel stumbled but didn’t fall. When her vision cleared, she saw Hilma staggering away from the parapet, her face very pale. “Got him,” she said, satisfaction in her voice.

After the loss of their mages and the subsequent destruction of their war barge, the Carthaki raiders fled. The next morning, Lord Alexander’s party left as well, riding northeast toward Fief Jesslaw. The fight at Fief Kendrach had only delayed them by four days; with any luck, the Grand Progress wasn’t far behind them.

Fief Jesslaw lay in a narrow valley half a day’s ride northwest of Pearlmouth, between the salt flats and the sea. After the stories she’d heard from Owen’s cousins, Kel was prepared for a certain degree of boisterousness there, but she wasn’t quite prepared for Owen’s father. A burly man with a booming voice, he clapped Kel on the shoulder when they were introduced, like they were old friends. “The giantess herself!”

Lord Alexander frowned. “My dear Lord Jesslaw,” he began, in a warning tone.

Lord Jesslaw didn’t appear to have heard him. “I feel like I know you already,” he went on, drowning him out. “I don’t know how Owen finds the time to write so many letters with all the homework you get.”

He turned to Lord Alexander, looking equally delighted to see him. “And they sent the King’s Champion! Should I feel honored, or is this a challenge?” Laughing heartily, he clapped him on the back, not appearing to notice when Lord Alexander tensed and exchanged a quick, wide-eyed glance with Sergeant Balim.

Over dinner that evening, Lord Jesslaw regaled Kel with stories about Owen’s childhood. At his request, she told him how they had met, and when she got to the part where Owen had jumped on Garvey’s back, he laughed so loudly that he woke Shiro, who was dozing under the table. As an apology, he slipped the dog a slice of ham.

Later, as they ascended the staircase leading to their bedrooms, Lord Alexander sighed wearily and said to Kel, “Three more days. At least.”

On the morning of their fifth day at Fief Jesslaw, the rest of the Grand Progress arrived. Kel was in the stable when the trumpets sounded, brushing down Halberd after the leisurely ride Lord Jesslaw had invited her knight-master on. When she returned to the keep, the courtyard was swarming with people she hadn’t seen for weeks, though her friends were nowhere to be found.

She didn’t stop to look for them; there would be time for that later. She proceeded upstairs, figuring that Lord Alexander was most likely done with his bath by now, and that he would probably want to wear something nicer than his riding clothes when he reported to the king. Reaching his bedroom door, she tapped lightly on it. “My lord?”

There came a muffled curse. After a pause, she heard him say, “Come in,” and opened the door to find Lord Alexander standing before his clothespress in stockinged feet, wearing breeches and a loose white shirt and frowning somewhat artificially at the rest of his clothes. To complete the tableau, Lord Thom leaned against the wall beside the window, his face slightly flushed and his gaze fixed on something outside.

“Sorry, my lord. I thought you might want help choosing something to wear, when you greet the king.”

Lord Alexander attempted a smile. “It’s fine, Kel. He was just . . .”

“Wear something blue,” suggested Thom as his voice trailed off. “To match his eyes. He likes that sort of thing.”

“He was just leaving.”

Thom stared at him for a moment, and then turned and left without a word. Lord Alexander winced. “We argued,” he said, after a long pause. “I’m sure he’ll cool off soon.”

She’d heard no raised voices behind the door; she was fairly certain they hadn’t been arguing when she’d knocked. “My lord, if I may,” she began, and felt a twinge of sympathy at the look on his face: he knew she didn’t believe him. “Your private life is your business. Even if I took issue with it, which I don’t, it wouldn’t be right for me to say so.”

He gazed at her in silence, his face unreadable. “You’ve heard rumors, I suppose,” he said finally. “It’s different for him. Mages have a certain amount of leeway in their personal lives; people already assume they’re . . .”

“They tell rumors about everybody,” she said, when his voice trailed off again. “It doesn’t matter. The blue tunic?”

He nodded slowly. “The darker blue one, with the gold trim. Thank you.”

That shade wouldn’t match the king’s eyes, as Lord Thom had said, but Kel didn’t argue. She located the tunic and a pair of hose that went well with it, and left the room. An explanation came a few hours later, when she returned to their rooms for her archery gear, and heard Thom’s voice again, from behind her knight-master’s door, saying fondly, “I’ve always liked these colors on you. But I suppose everyone would be cross if you didn’t change for dinner.”

“I doubt Jesslaw would care,” Lord Alexander replied.

Smiling at that, Kel retrieved her gear and crept out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

After another week at Fief Jesslaw, the Grand Progress set off again, bound for Pearlmouth. When they reached the southern pass leading out of the valley, Kel caught a glimpse of the city for the first time. Bathed in soft morning light, Pearlmouth sprawled over the foothills between the Southern Wall and the Drell River delta, spilling down toward the edge of the glittering Inland Sea like the train of a gown.

It was late afternoon before they reached the city gates, and the mountains to the west were awash in golden light. The first thing that struck her, when they rode through the gates, was the enormous crowd of people that lined the streets, dressed all in mourning colors.

Riding at the head of the progress, just behind Lord Alexander, she had a clear view of the spectators. They stood in still, watchful silence: no waving or cheering, no ribbons of royal blue. Kel suppressed a shiver; she felt uncomfortably exposed, riding through that silent sea of lavender, gray, and black. Beside her, the queen’s ladies’ lively conversation ceased, their expressions suddenly uncertain.

No one in the crowd called out to the progress. The people hardly even moved, only stared reproachfully up at them. It seemed an age before the silence was broken by cheers. As the streets began to climb toward Pearlmouth Castle, they came within sight of other crowds, full of people wearing royal blue and calling out blessings to the king. Even so, Kel was glad when the castle gates closed behind them, and she could concentrate on tending to the horses and unpacking.

The memory of those silent crowds returned to her, though, as she was brushing down Peachblossom in the stable. Who were they mourning? She remembered what Sacherell of Wellam had said about the army having to break up crowds of mourners last winter, after a Bazhir poet had died — but that had been over a year ago.

She’d asked Lord Alexander about that, on the ride south through the desert. At first, he had looked puzzled, and then realized whom she meant. “You’re talking about Alhaz ibn Dawud, I suppose,” he said. “But he wasn’t just a poet. He was the headman of a powerful tribe, and a respected leader. It’s a sad story, really. His son Zahir was there, the day he died in battle. He’s the headman now, though he’s scarcely more than a boy.”

Kel winced, feeling a wave of sympathy for Zahir, and then wondered whether Sir Sacherell had known the whole story. There was so much she didn’t know about Bazhir culture and politics, and she was beginning to suspect that lack of knowledge would lead to problems.

If the citizens of Pearlmouth weren’t still mourning Alhaz ibn Dawud, were they mourning the arrival of the Grand Progress itself? She had a feeling that was it, but she couldn’t shake the sense that there was something else, some other context she was missing, and it made her uneasy.

She’d have to ask her knight-master about it. When she reached their suite, though, he was busy washing up in his dressing room, so she got to work unpacking the rest of his things. She was laying out his dinner clothes when there came a knock at the sitting room door.

Kel moved to answer it, but he was quicker. “I’ll get it,” he said, and glanced at the clothes airing out on the bed, a dark red tunic, gray shirt, and gray hose. “The red?”

“You haven’t worn it in a while.”

He nodded, and left the room. She heard the door open, and Lord Alexander say, with a note of surprise in his low voice, “Sire? What —”

Quiet footsteps, as though someone had crossed the sitting room. Despite her curiosity, Kel went on shaking out clothes and folding them again. When she stood by the clothespress and turned her head a little toward the door, she found she could see them standing together before the open window, looking out toward the sea. The king was a rigid silhouette in the dying light.

After a moment, Lord Alexander put his hand on the king’s shoulder. “Are you all right?” she heard him say quietly.

“How _dare_ they,” said Roger, his voice low and bitter. “I am their _king_.”

“I know,” Lord Alexander murmured, squeezing his shoulder. “I know.”

The ballroom at Pearlmouth Castle was adorned with spring flowers, a reminder that Beltane was drawing near. Thom had never really cared for Beltane — he had no interest in jumping over dying fires with pretty girls — but he could appreciate the potency the night lent to certain magical workings. And with any luck, he might be able to use the holiday as an excuse to keep Alex in bed for longer, rather than getting up before any sane person was awake to go running along the castle wall or whatnot.

Of course, a day of travel might have the same effect. He stifled a yawn and said, “Let’s go pay our respects to the king so we can go to bed. Test out one of Lord Pearlmouth’s nice mattresses. They must be a family heirloom.” After all, the beds in the castle were _very_ well-made, if rather old, and he could feel the tension in the air as the household worried over how to feed them all for a week.

“No doubt,” said Alex, sounding distracted.

Thom gazed at him for a moment, letting him frown silently off into the middle distance, and then nudged him with his elbow. “Copper bit for your thoughts.”

“Are boats another family heirloom, I wonder?” When Thom frowned at him, puzzled, he explained, “Lord Kendrach told me he’d asked Pearlmouth to send boats if he could, when those Carthaki pirates attacked. Lord Pearlmouth shouldn’t have a fleet of ships capable of frightening off pirates.”

“Ah. Isn’t there a naval base here? But I suppose he wouldn’t have the authority to command the navy.”

“Not without going through the king’s council, no.”

“And people wonder why it takes so long for the government to get anything done.” Thom thought for a moment. “A fleet of merchant ships? He’d be hard-pressed to get enough squabbling merchants to agree on anything for that.”

Alex nodded. “Fishing boats wouldn’t scare pirates. He’d need archers to be of any assistance to Kendrach. Ideally catapults — the Carthakis had catapults.”

“True. I was wondering how much influence he has over the guilds here, but archers and catapults are of greater concern.”

Someone was approaching them; out of the corner of his eye Thom saw a flash of green and cream. He glanced up and saw Delia gliding toward them, not unlike a boat herself, smoothly navigating the waters of the crowd. She smiled pleasantly at him, and he returned the smile.

She came to a halt, boxing them into the corner where they stood. “Good evening, Lord Tirragen, Lord Trebond. How are you enjoying Pearlmouth Castle?”

“Very carefully,” said Thom, and she chuckled dryly.

“Always so witty. Lord Trebond, would you care to ask me to dance? I want to discuss little Sandy’s education with you.”

He resisted the urge to sigh heavily. “Very well. Your Majesty, would you like to dance?”

Her smile widened. “I’d love to, thank you, Thom.”

He offered her his arm, and she marched him over to the dance floor. A dance had just ended, and they took their places as a new one started: one of those lively group dances popular around Beltane, where circles of dancers swirled around each other like blossoms opening and closing.

“You’re out of practice,” Delia told him as he dutifully took her hand, turning her about while a circle of drunken courtiers swirled around them.

“Was I ever practiced?” said Thom, as they clasped hands with the other couple in the center of the ring. The lady on his other side looked warily at him for a moment, at his mage robes and red hair, before taking his hand. “You, dear lady, nearly had to issue a royal summons to get me to dance with you.”

Delia smiled at him again. “I suppose I’m being unfair. After all, who would you dance with? You wouldn’t be able to drag Alex out here.”

He considered that. They rejoined the larger swirl of dancers, and another pair of couples took their place in the middle of the circle. “That obvious, is it?” he said at last.

“You two are one of the worst-kept secrets of the progress,” she replied. “Which comes as something of a surprise. I would have expected Alex, at least, to be more discreet.”

“My fault, I suppose. I’m simply too flashy for secrets. Now, what did you want to discuss with me? Something about Sandy?”

“In retrospect, this was the wrong atmosphere for that. Let’s go out onto the terrace when the dance is over.”

This time he did sigh heavily, knowing the music would probably drown him out. The dance continued on for what felt like several hours, and then she took hold of his arm again and led him away. “I’m not at all sure he ought to be studying so many advanced subjects,” she said as they left the dance floor, loudly enough to confirm his growing suspicion that this was a ruse of some kind.

“Your Majesty,” he replied dutifully, “Prince Alexander’s teachers chose the curriculum after a careful evaluation of his abilities.”

Delia was gazing toward the musicians, not appearing to pay the least bit of attention to what he was saying. “That lute player looks familiar, doesn’t he?”

“Ah, you noticed that.”

“I have to say, I preferred it when my lord was carrying on with Lady Melantha behind my back. She’s wonderful company, and she had the backbone to stand up to him. Perhaps that’s why they broke things off.” They slipped through one of the doors leading out onto the darkened terrace. “His name is Finnian Harper, apparently. He’s the fourth son of a family of musicians living in Whitethorn. He’d recently joined a troupe based in Persopolis when my husband poached him for his own reasons.”

“He plays well enough,” said Thom with a shrug.

“Oh, certainly. Beautiful voice, too. Did you notice that sapphire earbob he’s wearing? I have at least three pairs of earbobs with that same cut. Roger certainly knows what he likes.”

“I believe I own an identical sapphire earbob. He told me he liked how it made my eyes look more blue.” He studied Delia’s face for a moment. “Were your earbobs bespelled?”

She glanced around, but they appeared to be alone in the shadows. “Yes.”

Thom smiled. “I removed the spellwork from mine. Left me weak as a kitten for at least a full day. Roger laughed at me when he noticed.”

“Can anyone hear us?” she murmured, barely moving her lips.

He shook his head, letting the magic with which he’d cloaked them both flare for an instant before dying away.

“Good, I thought not,” she said, raising her voice to a more comfortable level. She lifted her right hand, showing him the plain silver ring she wore there. He’d hardly noticed it among her other jewelry before, but now that he was paying attention, he caught a faint glimmer of magic on it. “This discourages that sort of thing.”

“An old protective spell?” he said, giving voice to the first thought that came to mind. It seemed wrong somehow; he wasn’t surprised when she shook her head. “No, it’s made to look old, isn’t it? And weaker than it really is. Who spelled your ring?”

She ran her hands over the folds of her gown, tucking the ring out of sight. “A Hill Country mage. They’re very good at hiding magic, or so I’d heard. It was my grandmother’s ring.”

“Has sentimental value, I imagine.”

She smiled. “Not long after we met, my lord told me it was good quality silver, but the engraving was starting to fade and I ought to have a jeweler touch it up. I don’t believe he’s noticed it since then.”

“Clever,” said Thom approvingly. “I’d love to meet your Hill Country mage someday.”

“I’m sure you would,” she said sweetly, and then hesitated. “Thom, do you think we should be here? Because I’d feel much safer if we were on the road to Port Legann.”

He raised an eyebrow to hide the fact that he’d had the same thought. “What would the citizens of Pearlmouth think, if we turned tail and ran?”

“Time to put away the mourning garb for a little while? At least until the next funeral that’s so well-attended, so close to a political demonstration, that the army marches in to brutalize the crowds of mourners and it turns into a riot.” She stared at him intently for a moment, and when he didn’t reply, she went on, “Most of the royal family is here. If the south chooses to rise up now, we could all be killed. Only Gavain would be left.”

Thom thought of Gavain, left alone in Corus to finish his last year of page training, and then shook his head. “An alarming thought, but unlikely. Lord Pearlmouth is too busy bowing and scraping before Roger to raise up an army.”

“I don’t think he’s in charge, precisely.”

“No? I suppose you believe all those fanciful myths about the Voice of the Tribes. He may be a mage, but he isn’t omnipotent. Besides, our Alex actually met him in the desert. Apparently they talked for some time.”

She frowned. “Did they? Do you know what they said?”

Alex had told him about that conversation late one night at Fief Jesslaw, and then drifted off into an apparently untroubled sleep while Thom lay awake, staring into the darkness and thinking uneasily about what the Voice had said: _The time is not right for war_ and _So long as your king is not determined to hang onto lands that are not his by right_. “They won’t attack the progress,” he told Delia, trying to sound reassuring. “The cost would be too great.”

She didn’t look reassured. She studied his face for a moment, and then sighed. “Two of my ladies asked to visit the markets tomorrow. I’m afraid I may have been a bit heavy-handed when trying to discourage them.”

Thom raised his eyebrows, thinking of how he’d noticed a small group of the queen’s ladies talking unhappily amongst themselves earlier, shortly after the dancing had started. “You discouraged them? That was probably unwise. If Lord Pearlmouth or any of his household _is_ in league with revolutionaries, seeing us with our guard up would only encourage them.”

She nodded slowly. “That’s true. We ought to behave normally in front of them. Perhaps I’ll send Jessamine out into the city with them, or that mage who rode south with Alex. Or both of them. Jess ought to have a chaperone who’s equally Gifted.”

“And the more mages, the better.”

Delia smiled. “Of course you’d say that.” She glanced back toward the ballroom, her smile fading and her voice growing soft. “How do you think he would react, if someone did attack the progress? When Carthak threatened war, he took care of that quickly, with minimal damage. But —”

She turned back to Thom, and he did his best to smile blandly at her. As far as he knew, Delia was ignorant of the actual circumstances surrounding Ozorne’s death, and he wasn’t in any mood to enlighten her. “But a potential civil war is another matter,” he replied. “I understand perfectly.”

“Do you think he’ll be able to avoid it?”

He considered that. “I don’t know,” he said at last, as honest as he’d ever been with her.

“Jon is of an age to rule,” she said carefully. “If it came to that.”

Thom gazed at her for a long moment, trying to keep her from seeing the thrill that ran through him at those words. “He may be getting old, but he’s still healthy. You’d have trouble convincing Duke Baird he died of a mere illness.”

Her eyes went wide; her right hand went to her chest, the silver ring glinting in the light from the ballroom. “That isn’t at all what I meant.”

He smiled. “Delia, don’t lie to me. It’s not a bad idea, really.”

The look of shocked innocence vanished from her face. In its absence, she looked tired, and faintly amused. “Of course, Jon lacks the wisdom that comes with experience. But I think it would be easier to guide him through difficult situations. One of Roger’s biggest flaws is that he thinks he always knows best.”

“But he often does, I’m sorry to say. He’d be very hard to kill, you know.”

One corner of her mouth lifted. “Oh, I know. He’s much too clever, and he’s certainly paranoid enough. I remember one Beltane, many years ago, when he got a little too drunk and ended up in my bedchamber, ranting to me about how any day now, your sister was going to turn up and finally murder him.”

Thom raised an eyebrow. “Was that the night little Sandy was conceived?”

She snorted. “No, I think it was the year before that. It wasn’t an atmosphere conducive to romance, to say the least.”

“If he’s always looking over his shoulder for Alanna, he might miss a threat closer to home.” She didn’t immediately reply, and so he shrugged. “Well, it’s a thought. But I’m exhausted. I should go pay my respects to him and drag Alex off to bed.” He turned away.

“Out of curiosity, how did he react to that?”

“To me and Alex?” he said, turning back to her. “Oh, he went utterly mad with jealousy. It was embarrassing, really.”

Delia smiled, disarmed by his sarcastic tone. “You needn’t make fun. He _does_ get jealous sometimes.” With a sigh, she moved to follow him back inside. “I’d better go patch things up with my ladies. They’ll understand, I’m sure. We were all a little tired and on edge by the time we reached the castle.”

“You’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep,” said Thom pleasantly, letting the protective spell fall away from them. He offered her his arm again, and together they returned to the ballroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I name the Bazhir tribe in this chapter after a middle-grade _Dinotopia_ chapter book? I did, yes. I spent about half my time in middle school pretending to be a Skybax rider and the other half pretending to be Alanna. Yes, I was extremely popular. The name doesn't fit the Bloody Hawk/Sleeping Lion pattern, but it fits in with the Sandrunners, the tribe that adopts Raoul in _Lioness Rampant_.
> 
> At the beginning of the first scene, during his exchange with Farid, Alex is referring to a qanat system.
> 
> Per the Tortall wiki, Kara's last name is Seif because she later married Halef Seif and took his name. Because no maiden name is listed for her and I'm weirdly intrigued by this pairing, I decided to go with that name for her.


	17. Hold Steady

There were no crowds of mourners lining the streets when the Grand Progress left Pearlmouth. It snaked west through the mountains as May gave way to June, stopping at several fiefs along the way. A few days before Kel’s fifteenth birthday, they stopped at Fief Ketan, which lay in a broad valley on what had once been the border between Tortall and Barzun. They were scheduled to stay there for a week; there was going to be a tournament.

“I might stay here,” said Sir Raoul the day before the tournament began, as they practiced their tilting in the empty lanes.

His lance had broken; Kel handed him a new one. “At Fief Ketan?” she said.

“On the southern coast,” he clarified.

“Thinking of what happened in Pearlmouth?” asked Lord Alexander, who had just taken his third run against his friend. He shook out his shield arm, wincing slightly.

“I was thinking more of those pirates you two fought. With ongoing tensions in Carthak, men like Lord Kendrach are always looking for extra swords.”

“Kendrach has pretty daughters, too, or so I hear.”

Sir Raoul had taken off his helm to wipe some of the sweat from his forehead; now he raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t see them? Or they weren’t your type?”

Lord Alexander shrugged. “I saw one of them on the wall, the day the war barge sank. She was wearing light armor and had her own crossbow.”

Kel remembered that. “She killed one of the pirates when they were trying to land another boat on the shore. It was a tricky shot.”

“Sounds like a woman after my own heart,” said Raoul, grinning.

“Honestly, I’m surprised you stuck with the progress for this long,” said Lord Alexander. “You hate this sort of thing.”

“True. But my father informed me that I’m officially representing Fief Goldenlake on this gods-cursed parade, and I’d better make the family look good.” He sighed, and then brightened slightly. “Maybe I’ll stick with you all as far as Port Legann. I like the food there, and there’s talk of things heating up with the Copper Isles.”

Lord Alexander frowned. “What, _now_? Hopefully those rumors die down when the marriage treaty is finalized.”

“Marriage treaty?” asked Kel, puzzled.

He looked faintly embarrassed, though if he had started to blush she couldn’t tell: the summer sun had darkened his skin enough to make that harder to see. “Gavain and the older daughter of King Oron’s cousin. It hasn’t been officially announced yet, so don’t go repeating that to anyone.”

“Her father’s next in line after Oron’s sons, isn’t he?” said Raoul, raising his eyebrows. “Not a family I’d be eager to join.”

“Nor I.”

Kel was trying to remember what she’d learned about the Copper Isles in her classes, trying to picture the girl Gavain would likely end up marrying. “What do they say about King Oron’s family?” It was a big family, she knew; she had seen a complicated diagram at some point.

“Madness runs in it,” said her knight-master bluntly. “A few years back, Oron had a dream about one of his sons turning into a rat and biting him. He had his son executed for that.”

“Because of a _dream_?” She looked at Sir Raoul, whose expression was grim but unsurprised: apparently he’d heard this story before. “Does King Roger know about this?”

Lord Alexander nodded.

“And he still wants to marry his son off to one of Oron’s relatives?”

He glanced at Raoul and shrugged. “I think he prefers to have Oron bonded to him by blood, in the hope that he’ll be less likely to start a war with us.”

“After what he did to his own son?” she retorted.

“A king has dominion over his country,” he reminded her gently. “Certainly he has dominion over his household. When he’s a mad tyrant, there’s little the rulers of any neighboring country can do to stop him.”

“Unless they want to start a war,” added Raoul. “And unfortunately the Copper Isles have a stronger navy than we do. Ready for another run, Alex?”

He shook his head. “I think I might have pulled something the last time. I’m competing tomorrow, so I’d better sit this one out. Kel?”

“Yessir,” she said, reaching for her helm.

She mounted up and rode over to the far end of the lane, the same starting point her knight-master had used. After settling her shield and practice lance into position, she shut her eyes for a moment, trying to draw the quiet morning into herself: the wind in the trees beyond the practice yards, the distant sounds of castle life. There was nothing she could do about Gavain’s betrothal, or about the relationship between Tortall and the Copper Isles, and it would be foolish to get too upset over something she couldn’t change. And for all she knew, Gavain was content with his future bride; after all, he’d spent most of his life preparing for a royal marriage.

She opened her eyes. In the distance, behind Sir Raoul, a pair of young men paused to watch them. One of them, blond-haired and dressed in shades of brown and yellow, was almost certainly Joren.

“Ready?” called Raoul.

Fixing her attention on him, Kel saluted him with her lance. If Joren had decided to watch her tilt, she couldn’t really stop him, though it seemed like an ill omen. “Go faster,” she murmured, trying to put him out of her mind as Peachblossom surged forward.

When a servant appeared in the middle of lunch and handed her a note, Kel wasn’t surprised. She glanced at the seal, which bore the Tirrsmont coat of arms, and then broke it open.

“Another duel?” said Neal, raising an eyebrow. At some point he had learned to pack all of his disapproval at the idea of her competing against full knights into two words and a raised eyebrow, which saved her the time an argument would have taken.

She scanned the note. “No, this time it’s an invitation to joust.”

That got his attention. “A _joust_? You’re barely a second-year squire!”

“Who is it?” asked Merric, who sat beside her. “Tirrsmont?”

Kel nodded. “Sir Voelden. I’ve never met him.” If she had to guess, though, she’d say he was probably the man who had gone for a walk with Joren earlier, over by the tilting lanes.

“This is what comes of practicing with Raoul of Goldenlake,” said Neal darkly. “When they see you tilting with one giant, anyone’s fair game.”

“Are you going to accept the match?” asked Cleon, concern on his face.

She frowned, thinking that over. She’d competed four times since they’d left Pearlmouth — friendly matches, not challenges — and won twice. But those had been fencing matches, not tilting. “If I don’t, he might very well take offense and challenge me. But it’s a joust, and I don’t even know if my lord thinks I’m ready to compete in one of those yet.”

She refused the match; after lunch, Sir Voelden tracked her down and slapped her with his glove.

The next day, the day before her birthday, dawned warm and humid, and only grew hotter as the morning wore on. When she sat astride Peachblossom at the far end of her lane, waiting for the trumpet call, she was conscious mainly of the sweat trickling over her forehead and down her back. She only hoped she wasn’t about to go flying.

A glance toward the stands told her they were full of people, despite the heat. There was the trumpet. “Charge,” she told Peachblossom, before she thought better of it. She wanted the extra advantage his best speed would give her.

As her horse flew down the lane, her focus narrowed to Voelden’s shield. She struck it dead-on. His lance struck her shield at a slight angle, as if he hadn’t really been trying, and her arm went slightly numb.

They swerved away from each other, returning to their starting points. She examined her lance, which looked undamaged, and then readied herself for another trumpet blast.

Peachblossom charged. Again there came the impact of lance against shield and shield against lance, the sight of Voelden slamming into the high back of his saddle. This time her lance broke.

At the end of the lane, she accepted a new lance from the field monitor. All told, the first two runs had been successful: she’d managed to stay in the saddle, and hadn’t done anything to disgrace herself. Voelden wasn’t as formidable an opponent as she’d feared; he wasn’t nearly as fast as Lord Alexander, and he didn’t hit as hard as Sir Raoul, though he had put more force behind his second hit than the first. From the way he had hesitated slightly before bringing his lance down, she’d half expected him to insult her by not even trying.

There came the third trumpet call. She rose in her stirrups as Peachblossom charged down the lane, shifting to put more force behind her lance when she struck. That was a trick her knight-master liked to use against heavier opponents; she’d nearly knocked him off his horse the day he had taught it to her.

She hit just below the shield boss, felt Voelden’s lance skid off her shield. There came a harder blow to her ribs that knocked the breath out of her. Thrown off-balance, Voelden fell rather than flew from his saddle, landing in the mud with a clatter of plate armor. His stallion danced away from him as Kel swayed in her saddle, disoriented and struggling to breath.

“Foul!” someone cried, over a disapproving roar from the stands.

Peachblossom lunged for Voelden. Kel recovered before he reached the barrier, pulling his reins taut. “Stop it, curse you!” Try as she might, she couldn’t raise her voice above a breathy squeak. She managed to turn him, and rode back to the end of her lane.

A quick inspection of her breastplate showed a fist-sized dent over her ribs. The field monitor took her lance and handed her a bottle of water. As she removed her helm and drank gratefully, he told her, “Judges gave the victory to you, squire.”

“Because he tried to run me through?” she asked, trying and failing to speak at a normal volume.

“If you ask me, they would’ve given it to you anyway. Your hits were sounder than his.”

She smiled at him, trying not to wince at the effort it took to breathe.

He gave her an odd look. “Was that your first joust, squire?”

Kel nodded. “Did it show?” she asked, remembering Sir Voelden’s graceless slide off his horse.

The field monitor shook his head slowly. “Well, it’s rare for seasoned knights to try to kill each other during tournaments.”

Healers had been dispatched, a small crowd gathering around Voelden as he lay in the mud, one leg twisted under him. Lord Alexander followed the healer sent to examine her, his face stormy. Kel dismounted as they drew near, wincing at the pain in her ribs, and leaned against Peachblossom for support.

“Congratulations,” said her knight-master. “You won your very first joust. Now, is there anything you’d like to say to Sir Voelden before I kill him?”

“It would be more honorable to wait until after his leg is healed, my lord,” murmured the healer, who was inspecting Kel’s breastplate. “You’ll need to come to the healers’ tent,” she told Kel. “You’re badly bruised at the very least, and I wouldn’t be surprised if a rib is cracked.”

Lord Alexander glanced back toward Voelden, who still lay in the mud. “Horse stepped on him, did it? At least the horse has a sense of decency.”

Assuring her that Peachblossom would be well cared for, a crowd of women led by her mother and Shinkokami bore her away to the healers’ tent, where Kel learned that she’d fractured a rib. At first she wasn’t quite sure where Shinko had come from, until midway through her healing the tent flap opened abruptly and Jessamine walked in, saying, “You were lucky to get away as cleanly as you did. They tried to make me stay to watch Lerant’s match, but I reminded them that someone had just impaled my friend.”

Kel smiled at her, touched, and then winced slightly as the cool relief radiating from the healer’s hand turned suddenly to a sharp pain. “I’m fine,” she said, through gritted teeth. “I was wearing armor.” Shinko, seated beside her, squeezed her hand.

“Ah,” said the healer, “there’s the cracked rib. Fortunately it’s just a small fracture. Don’t fight me, now.”

Lady Ilane sat on Shinko’s other side, watching the proceedings intently. “My children don’t fight healers, or I’ll know why.”

Kel rolled her eyes. “Mama, I haven’t done that in _years_.” Coolness deepened almost to cold, numbing relief sinking deep into her ribs. She inhaled deeply, experimentally, and felt a sudden wave of exhaustion. From the entrance to the tent, Jessamine flashed her a sympathetic smile, the expression of someone frequently exhausted by mothers.

After the healer released her, the women escorted her back to her bedroom in the castle, where she was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. When she emerged later, in the bright warmth of midday, she found that her knight-master had ordered a platter of food to their sitting room.

“What time is it?” she asked, remembering that he was scheduled to compete just after lunch.

“Barely noon,” Lord Alexander replied, from his chair beside the window. She was glad to see him reading a book rather than cleaning his sword. “Go ahead, eat something.”

Kel didn’t argue. “Tell me you haven’t challenged Sir Voelden to a duel,” she said, in between bites.

“I came to my senses,” he said calmly, turning a page. “I decided it was your right to kill him rather than mine.”

“Thank you for the offer, sir, but I think I’ll decline.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He went on reading for a few minutes, and then added, “If I were you, I would go back to bed after I’d finished eating.”

“It was only one cracked rib, my lord. I should make sure you have all your gear first.”

“It’s a match, not a duel,” he reminded her. “I won’t need mail, and I can look after my own sword for one afternoon.”

“I feel all right now.”

“Even so. You’ll find as you grow older that healings take longer to really sink in. Better to get in the habit of resting afterward while you’re still young. Might even delay the inevitable somewhat.”

There was a slight edge to his voice that made her tempted to ask whether “the inevitable” he referred to was actually death. But he had a point about healings — her oldest brother was beginning to build up a resistance to them — so she decided not to argue further. “Do you know if Sir Voelden broke any bones?”

“I certainly hope he did. I haven’t asked around, though.” He turned another page. “You know, very few squires win their first joust.”

“They disqualified him,” she pointed out. “For trying to kill an opponent when he wasn’t supposed to.”

“Only because you made him angry, by stubbornly refusing to fly off your horse during either of the first two runs.” He glanced up at her, smiling. “Take the win, Kel, and go back to bed for a few hours. Your hits were more accurate, anyway.”

To her knight-master’s credit, she didn’t feel half as tired the next morning as she usually did after a healing. She rose before dawn, dressed, and went down to one of the practice courts to meet Shinkokami and her ladies. Her mother and Jessamine joined them, arriving at the same time in the midst of a conversation about packing for a sea voyage.

Kel declined to join them for breakfast afterward: the king had invited Lord Alexander on an early ride through the forest that lay east of the castle, and she needed to go saddle his riding horse. Somewhat to her surprise, Jessamine followed her. “Breakfast with Mama,” the princess explained, making a face. “She might even be awake by now, so I need to hurry and get changed. We have girls to interview this morning. Potential ladies-in-waiting,” she added, when Kel looked quizzically at her, “for my entourage in Carthak.”

“Oh,” said Kel, understanding now. Of course she’d bring some of her own ladies abroad with her, as Shinko had. “Have you chosen any yet?”

Shaking her head, Jessamine linked arms with her as they cut across one of the gardens. “I’ve narrowed the list down a bit, but it’s a nightmare, really. There are so many girls who say they want to be considered — or their families do — but then I actually talk to some of them. One girl I interviewed last week hails from a fief just south of the City of the Gods, and had never left the north until she came to court last year, where she was apparently put off by the strange southern food in Corus. Another girl was surprised to learn that it never snows in Thak City. It isn’t their lack of _knowledge_ that’s the problem,” she continued, with a fierce light in her eyes as if she were trying to get across something that was hard for her to put into words. “It’s the way they looked when I remarked on it: like it had never occurred to them that the world might look different to other people.”

Kel nodded. “Some people have no curiosity.”

“None! And no interest in travel, but their parents want them to be lady-in-waiting to an empress. One girl I talked to yesterday looked absolutely terrified as she assured me she was excited to live in Carthak forever. What do they gain by lying?”

Cutting across the garden had taken them to a door near the great hall, where the early risers were beginning to trickle in to breakfast. Many of them came from the camp that housed most of the progress; unlike at some of the other fiefs where they’d stopped along their journey, Ketan Castle wasn’t isolated by anything like a lake or a hill. Its grounds sprawled over the southern end of the valley held by its lord — relatively unprotected at first glance, considering how close the fief lay to waters frequented by Carthaki and Copper Isles pirates, until Kel caught a gleam of magic out of the corner of her eye and remembered hearing that most generations of the Ketan family had produced at least one powerful mage, and often more.

They had the misfortune to enter the castle at the same time Joren arrived for breakfast. He paused outside the door to the great hall, eyeing their linked arms with distaste as they approached, headed for the staircase beyond. Kel nodded to him, determined to be civil even if it killed her.

He hesitated, risking a severe insult to the royal family, and then bowed correctly to Jessamine. As they passed him, Kel felt a wave of relief come over her — he wasn’t going to say anything after all — and then his voice broke the silence. “Sir Voelden of Tirrsmont broke his leg, you know.”

Kel turned her head to frown at him, her steps slowing. “Jousting is dangerous,” she told him. “Surely Sir Voelden knew that. _He_ tried to run me through.”

Jessamine let go of her arm, rounding on him. Her dark hair, formerly a tidy crown plaited and pinned around her head, had begun to crackle and spark. Kel stared at it, startled, as she said, “How dare you act like she wronged _him_. A full knight trying to kill a squire, without provocation or leave, in full view of the king and his court! He’s lucky that a broken leg and a warning from the judges were all he got.” Her voice was tight with anger, her blue eyes blazing.

Joren gazed back at her warily. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Your Highness,” he said, rather stiffly. “That was an accident: he missed her shield.”

A pin popped from her braid, narrowly missing Kel’s cheek. Jessamine didn’t appear to notice. “Of course you’d try to hide behind plausible deniability,” she went on. “You’re a coward and a bully, who kidnaps maidservants and beats up on younger brothers.” Joren’s eyes widened slightly at that, and then narrowed again. “Tell your friend I don’t want to see him compete again. I don’t like him.” When Joren remained where he was, gazing at them in silence, she waved a hand dismissively. “You may go.”

He hurried into the great hall, but the silence remained. Then Jessamine put a hand to her hair and groaned. “Gods, it’s all standing on end, isn’t it? Mama’s going to be horrified.”

The braided crown held, barely, but it frizzed and crackled like a stormcloud about her head. Kel gazed at it thoughtfully, trying to come up with a tactful response. “It’s a bit of a mess,” she said finally. “I don’t suppose you could blame it on the wind?”

“Only if the lightning in it dies down.” Heedless of the lightning, Jessamine tried to pat down her hair, but strands of it clung to her fingers. More of the braid exploded into frizz. “Better?”

It was not better. “Water might help. Let’s go upstairs.”

As they ascended the staircase, Kel said, “I don’t know if banning Sir Voelden from competition is going to help.”

Jessamine shrugged. “He’ll try something like that again, if he’s given the chance. I’d rather not give it to him.”

“He’ll likely seek revenge one way or another.” Then she thought of something else the princess had said. “When you mentioned Joren beating up on younger brothers, were you thinking of someone in particular?”

Jessamine glanced at her, frowning slightly. “Gavain isn’t half as good at hiding things from me as he thinks he is. You knew about it, too, didn’t you?”

Kel nodded reluctantly, remembering how Gavain had said that if he told his family about Joren bullying him, their reaction would be “disproportionate.” She wondered, not for the first time, precisely what he’d imagined they would do.

“If Voelden bothers you again, tell me and I’ll have a word with him.”

Reaching the corridor where they were both housed, they were distracted by the sight of a manservant wearing the colors of Fief haMinch, who stood outside the door of Kel’s sitting room. He knocked briskly on it, and Kel strode over to him. “Excuse me,” she said, “are you looking for Lord Alexander?”

The man turned, looking her over, and then bowed. “No, squire, I was looking for you.” He handed her a note, adding, “My lord requests the courtesy of a match.”

Trying not to grimace, she broke open the seal and read the message inside: Beltair haMinch, the tilting lanes, tomorrow morning. Jessamine peered over her shoulder. “Are you going to say yes?” she asked.

Kel sighed. “I refused Sir Voelden, and he tracked me down and slapped me with his glove.” She turned back to the waiting servant. “You can tell your master I accept.”

He bowed again, and retreated.

“Beltair,” said Jessamine thoughtfully. “He’s a distant cousin on my mother’s side, though I hardly know him.”

“Is he?”

She smiled wryly. “My great-aunt was quite a beauty in her day. The stuffier court fusspots objected because she was half Tusaine and half hill barbarian, or so they said, but she managed to ensnare a Minchi. Sir Beltair’s father’s first cousin, I believe. I doubt _he’ll_ try to run you through — that side of the family is all very proper and correct.”

No doubt he’d very properly and correctly knock her off her horse tomorrow morning. “Well, that’s something, at least.”

“I’d better go. Hopefully my maid can put my hair to rights before Mama’s even awake.” She caught hold of Kel’s hand and squeezed it, smiling at her. “You’ll do wonderfully tomorrow. I’ll try to watch, if I can get away from the interviews.”

If she was in the stands the next morning, Kel couldn’t see her. From her starting point at the end of her lane, the stands were an indistinct sea of people under a brilliant blue sky. It had rained briefly in the night, leaving the morning slightly cooler than it had been during her joust with Sir Voelden, for which she was grateful.

By now she knew what to expect. The trumpet sounded; with a word to Peachblossom, she charged down the lane, her attention on Sir Beltair’s shield. Her lance struck it squarely, thumping him into the high back of his saddle. He had hesitated for just an instant before striking, but he’d aimed for the center of her shield rather than her ribs. Her arms ached slightly as she turned Peachblossom and rode back to the end of the lane, thoughtful. He was lighter in the saddle than Voelden or Raoul, and he hadn’t put as much power behind his strike as she’d expected. And there had been the brief hesitation, as if he weren’t really trying, or were afraid to hurt her.

She checked her lance, which hadn’t broken, and readied herself for another run. At the sound of the trumpet, Peachblossom exploded down the lane. Her seat was right, her aim true; she knew she had him cold as she rose in her stirrups and struck just under the shield boss. She threw her weight behind the strike, felt his lance hit her shield — and then he was flying.

He landed better than Sir Voelden had, flat on his belly in the churned grass, well out of the path of his horse. Reining in, Kel took stock: other than sore arms, she felt no pain. He hadn’t tried to kill her. Relieved, she dismounted and crossed to the barrier, as a small crowd — field monitors and a healer — hurried toward Sir Beltair.

With a groan, he pushed himself up into a sitting position and removed his helm. His hair and mustache were drenched with sweat. “I knew my seat was wrong,” he said, as his horse returned to his side. Gripping the saddle, he hauled himself to his feet and approached the barrier. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice,” he added, a little ruefully. “Well rode, squire.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, relieved to find he wasn’t hurt.

He waved away the healer who had come to check on him, and then held out his hand to Kel. After a moment, she took it, suddenly reminded of the knight who had beaten her in a fencing match two weeks ago and then, to her surprise, apologized for having believed the unkind rumors he’d heard about her. They shook hands.

“Frankly, I thought it was a mistake when Wyldon agreed to train you, and when Tirragen took you as his squire,” Sir Beltair went on, letting go of her hand. “But after what I’ve seen of you during the progress — perhaps I was wrong.”

It was probably the best she’d get from him; it was certainly better than she’d gotten from most of the men she’d competed against. She smiled blandly at him. “That’s kind of you to say, sir.”

He nodded to her in a friendly sort of way, before mounting up again and riding away.

In the stable, she found Sir Raoul saddling his horse for an upcoming match. He was alone in the stall; for the first time, she found herself wondering why he didn’t have a squire. “Hello, sir,” she said, a little awkwardly. “Did you want help?”

He smiled at her. “That’s all right, Kel. I can manage.” His gelding butted his chest, nosing around for sugar lumps, and he patted the horse’s neck. “I caught part of your match — was that Beltair haMinch you unhorsed?”

“Yessir. He didn’t seem to take it very hard.”

Raoul’s eyebrows shot up. “No? Man’s a hardline conservative — or at least he was last I checked. In Pearlmouth I overheard him telling Stigand of Fenrigh that he refuses to send his Gifted son to King’s University because they have women and commoners on the faculty. Did he hit his head on the ground?”

“He said he might have been wrong about it being a mistake to let me train for my knighthood.”

“Well, that’s something.” He double-checked a strap on his gelding’s bridle, nodded, and said, “You know, nearly everyone who’s offered you a match so far has been a staunch conservative.”

She hadn’t noticed that. “Have they?”

He nodded. “They’re out to prove you’re not as good as the lads, and you haven’t been giving them what they want. When you show you’re equal to most knights, you’re giving some of them — the ones whose heads aren’t completely full of rocks — a reason to think, and hopefully remember that only a century ago, there were other lady knights in Tortall. Keep up the good work,” he added, as he led his horse out of the stall.

She smiled, touched by what he’d said. “Thank you, sir. I had good teachers.”

As he left the stable, vanishing into the bright summer morning, she led Peachblossom down the aisle to his own stall and began to unsaddle him, murmuring compliments to him as she worked.

After leaving Fief Ketan, the Grand Progress followed the coastline as it curved northwest toward Port Legann. It was nearly August by the time they reached it. At Legann Castle, they were joined by the first-year squires, most of whom remained in service to Master Oakbridge; few knights were in a hurry to choose a new squire in the midst of the progress.

One of the few who had been chosen was Prince Gavain, who stood in the serving room that first evening with the rest of them, wearing the colors of Fief Legann. When she saw him, Kel grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “Congratulations! How do you like being a squire?”

He smiled up at her, a little shyly. “Lord Imrah seems like a decent sort.”

“You can look out from his castle ramparts,” said Prosper of Tameran, grinning slyly at him, “and gaze wistfully in the direction of the Copper Isles. Might even catch a glimpse of pirates on a clear day.” The announcement of the prince’s betrothal had gone out around the kingdom the week before; at recent banquets, Kel noticed herself glancing over at King Roger more often than usual, trying to catch some intimation of how he really felt about having yoked his son to the mad king’s cousin.

Gavain rolled his eyes. “I think I can find something better to do with my time than moon over geography.”

“I’m surprised your brother didn’t pick you to be his squire,” Kel remarked, wanting to change the subject. She had seen another boy wearing the tunic badge that proclaimed he served the heir to the throne.

“Father said we’d lead each other astray. He thought someone steady like Lord Imrah would suit me better. And Jon settled on Dunstan of Nond, who’s a distant cousin on our mother’s side, because he’s tall and said to be rather good with a sword.”

“That’s all it takes?” said Prosper. “Just be tall and good with a sword, and you can be the crown prince’s squire?”

Gavain grinned at him. “Pity we were born short.”

At that moment Owen appeared in the doorway, still adjusting his shirt collar. “Kel!” he cried, throwing his arms around her.

She laughed. “You’re mussing your uniform. Don’t let Oakbridge catch you like that.”

“Did you really visit Jesslaw? I had a letter from Papa,” he explained, pulling away from her and tugging his tunic straight again. It threw his collar further askew; she straightened it.

She was a little surprised to see he still wore the ordinary blue-and-silver of a palace squire. “We did. Your father told me all your secrets.”

“ _Owen_ tells us all his secrets,” Gavain pointed out.

Owen stuck out his tongue at him. “Someone’s smug because he’s a proper squire.”

“You’re a squire, too,” said Kel. “You survived the big exams as much as any of us did.”

He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I’ve got the title, but not the work. Until I get picked, I’m at Master Oakbridge’s beck and call full-time.”

“It’s the Grand Progress, that’s all,” she reassured him. “Most of us weren’t picked right away either, even the lads I felt sure would be chosen that first week. I’m not surprised it’s gotten worse as the progress continues.”

“That’s what Lord Wyldon said, too. _I_ say it stinks, whatever it is.” He didn’t have time to say anything more before Master Oakbridge stalked into the room, his eyes alight from the stress of the progress. From what she’d seen of him since the start of her page training, Kel had started to suspect that Oakbridge thrived on stress. She heard Owen stifle a groan at the sight of him, and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

The banquet that evening was followed by a troupe of acrobats. Kel returned late enough to her room that she’d expected to find Lord Alexander already abed, but instead he was awake and seated by the empty fireplace in the sitting room. A book lay open on his lap, but he stared off into space, not reading it.

“Good night, my lord,” said Kel, on her way to her bedroom.

Lord Alexander looked up, blinking at her. “Oh, you’ve returned. Good night, Kel.”

She paused, frowning. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, it’s fine.” But he sounded uncertain, so she didn’t go into her room. After a moment he sighed, ran his hand through his hair, and gestured to the chair opposite his. “Well, perhaps not. Have a seat.”

Kel sat down, thoroughly curious now.

“I’ve been a bit lax, I think, in your political education,” he began. “I was always bored by politics myself, but that’s no reason to be negligent.”

“Has something in particular happened?” she asked, her mind running rapidly through the possibilities. War on the horizon? He had told her about his conversation with the Voice of the Tribes a few months back, so she doubted they were about to be plunged into civil war, but Scanra was a possibility; recently she’d started hearing talk of a Scanran warlord encouraging skirmishes along the northern border. Or could it be something to do with a marriage treaty? Trouble with Gavain’s future in-laws seemed most likely, or perhaps Jessamine’s betrothed — things weren’t entirely stable in Carthak. It might even have something to do with Prince Alexander. As far as she knew, the king hadn’t found a bride yet for the youngest prince, though she’d heard rumors he was in talks on that subject with Maren and Tusaine.

“It may be nothing,” said her knight-master, “but it troubles me. I had a conversation with Roger tonight, during which he informed me that he’s just fired his spymaster. Don’t tell any of your friends about that,” he added, his eyes intent on her face.

Kel blinked at him, surprised. She thought of the man generally known to be the king’s official spymaster, a small, plain-looking man called Yves of Sandhill, who hailed from a barony along the southern coast, somewhere north of Fief Jonajin. “Why? It’s not because of trouble in the south, is it?”

Lord Alexander raised his eyebrows. “Not a bad guess. I think that may be a factor, though Yves isn’t descended from the old Barzunni nobility. His grandfather was elevated to the nobility about fifty years ago by King Jasson. But I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Roger’s starting to get suspicious of southerners.”

She frowned, unsettled by the implications of that. “Did the king tell you why he fired him?”

He nodded grimly. “Apparently the acute cause of their quarrel was the trouble Yves had with his agents in the Copper Isles. Three Tortallan agents have been compromised there over the last six months.”

Kel gave a low whistle. “Three in six months,” she repeated, a little stunned.

“Apparently Roger wanted to behead him, but the queen managed to talk him out of that.”

“What do you mean exactly by ‘compromised’?”

“They were all approached by someone with some connection to House Balitang, usually a servant, who told them of ominous prophetic dreams.”

She knew that name; she’d heard it when the herald had announced Gavain’s betrothal. “King Oron’s spies, I suppose, or perhaps the duke’s — Lady Saraiyu’s father.”

“Mequen.”

“What sort of ominous prophetic dreams?”

He grimaced. “Something about a god warning them that if Gavain married Lady Saraiyu, both our nations would fall into ruin.” Then his grimace gave way to a more thoughtful expression. “Oron’s spymaster is said to be infamous, though I always had the impression he ruled mainly through fear. This — might be his work.”

Kel frowned. It seemed much more likely to her now that these people were Duke Mequen’s spies, assuming that his king hadn’t given him or his daughter a choice about the betrothal. “But why would King Oron agree to the marriage and then work to end it?”

Lord Alexander shrugged. “Perhaps he wants Roger to be the one to call it off, so he has some excuse to start a war.”

That chilled her. “Was Lady Saraiyu given a choice in the matter?”

He looked at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Frankly, I doubt it.”

Setting aside his unread book, he rose from his chair. “Well — I’m exhausted, and I expect you are as well. I’m going to bed. We can continue your political education in the morning.”

He left her sitting there by the fireplace. It was empty and swept clean, unlit against the sweltering summer night, providing her with nothing but her own troubled thoughts for company.

In the morning, she was scheduled for a jousting match against Lerant of Eldorne, who had told her cheerfully the day before that he wanted to hit her with a stick in front of everybody. In the stable, she found Sir Raoul looking over his tack and saddle. Kel watched him for a moment, curious. It didn’t look as though he were preparing for a joust. “Good morning, sir. Are you going somewhere?”

He looked up. “Hello, Kel. I’ve decided I’m finally breaking free of this traveling menagerie. There’s often flooding along the coast this time of year, not to mention pirates.”

She nodded. She’d miss him, but he would be happier doing real knight’s work away from the progress; part of her was jealous of his relative freedom. Then, suddenly, an idea struck her. “Safe travels, sir. If you don’t mind my asking — do you ever take squires?”

He gazed at her for a moment, half smiling. “That desperate to get out of here, are you? You already have a knight-master.”

She smiled back at him. “I wasn’t talking about myself. I wondered, though, because I’ve never seen you with a squire.”

“Ah,” he said, looking thoughtful. He was silent for long enough that she didn’t expect him to say very much, and then he surprised her: “I’ve had them in the past, but lately I’ve gotten used to doing without. My last squire was some years back. He was injured in a fight — my fault, really.”

Kel blinked at him, wishing suddenly that she hadn’t asked. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“He recovered, thank the gods. But it scared me — which was for the best. If I wasn’t going to take more care, it was better not to have anyone in my charge.” He was silent for a moment, and then shook his head as if to clear it. “But that was well over five years ago, and I trust myself more now. You have someone in mind, don’t you?”

She took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. “Owen of Jesslaw.”

He stroked his chin, looking thoughtful. “I know Fief Jesslaw, of course, but I don’t believe I’ve met Owen. You think he’d suit me?”

“I do, sir. He’s easygoing, but he works hard — he _wants_ to work hard, and he wants to serve a knight in the field, but right now he’s stuck with palace squire duty. He’s brave, and clever, and very kind. He’ll make a fine knight someday, I think.”

Raoul’s face broke into a smile. “Thank you for your recommendation, Kel, truly. I’ll give the matter some thought. Now, you’d better get ready for your match.”

She lost narrowly to Lerant: neither of them flew from the saddle, but her lance broke during the third run and the judges decided that his strikes had been better overall. “Nepotism,” he told her cheerfully, as they shook hands afterward. “Better knock me off my horse next time.”

He was vaguely insufferable when he was in a good mood. “I’ll do my best,” she promised him.

“Of course you will. You’re extremely frustrating that way.” He saluted her and then sauntered away, leading his horse back to the stable.

A bath eased most of the soreness from Kel’s muscles; afterward she settled down on her bed to read one of the books on the history of the Copper Isles that Lord Alexander had borrowed from the castle library. When the light began to fade, she changed into her dress uniform and went down to the serving room, where someone cannonballed into her. She tensed, braced for a fight, and then realized she was being hugged.

Owen’s voice was muffled against her tunic. “Oh Kel, you’ll never believe — I got an offer from Raoul of Goldenlake! He’s a fighting knight, and one of the best jousters in the kingdom. He said he’s going to take me on patrol with him, and we’re going to fight bandits and pirates. Kel, I’m going to be a _squire_.”

“Congratulations,” she said, trying not to laugh. “You already were, silly.”

“ _You_ know what I mean.”

He spent the next week hurrying around Port Legann with Sir Raoul, getting the supplies he’d need for several months of travel as a fighting squire, while Kel grew bored enough with reading about history and politics to put her name on the board for matches. Toward the end of the week, Lord Wyldon arrived with the pages in tow, fresh from their summer camp along the coast midway between Port Caynn and Port Legann. He wanted them to observe a tournament before they returned to Corus.

With the arrival of the pages, the squires were given a reprieve from their serving duties for a few days, and allowed to enjoy the banquets as they had in Persopolis. After dinner that evening, Kel wandered the castle grounds with some of her friends, listening to the calls of the gulls and the more distant sound of waves crashing against the rocks. Owen was in bright spirits after his reunion with Fianola, the page he’d sponsored the year before: earlier that day Kel had watched him, dressed in his new Goldenlake uniform, crash into her outside the stables, crying out, “Fee, look! I’m a real squire now!”

Outside on the castle grounds, the air was so heavy with salt that Kel could taste it as they strolled along the paths, talking idly. The wind was high that evening, and cool enough to provide some relief from the early August heat. Before going back inside the castle, they stopped to check the tournament board, to see if any of them were competing in the morning. On the fencing court earlier that day, Kel had narrowly beaten Neal’s older brother Graeme, whose assignment fighting sea raiders along the western coast had just ended; if he ever felt any lingering pain from the nearly fatal injury that had helped to inspire Neal to train for knighthood, she hadn’t seen any sign of it.

She felt a chill when she found her name on the board, ghostly in the mage-light Neal had cast. “I’m doomed.”

Neal’s jaw dropped. “The Stump versus a mere squire? You _are_ doomed. Why would he do this?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” said Owen sarcastically. “Don’t listen to him, Kel. You’re going to do great.”

Hearing that, Kel had to laugh. “Thank you, Owen. That’s very kind of you.”

“I mean it,” he protested.

After that, there could be no more idle wandering of the grounds. She returned to the castle and went to bed as soon as she could, wanting to rest before Lord Wyldon sent her flying into the mud. Her knight-master wasn’t in the sitting room; a sense of emptiness about the suite suggested that either he hadn’t yet returned from the ballroom, or he’d decided to spend the night in Lord Thom’s rooms. Either way, she had to tell him about the impending match over breakfast.

Lord Alexander wasn’t often startled, but when she told him her news, she got to see his eyebrows ascend alarmingly. “Well,” he said after a long moment, “think of it as a learning experience.”

His reaction seemed like a bad sign to her. “A learning experience, my lord?” She had hoped he could tell her how to beat Lord Wyldon, or at least stay in the saddle.

“You’re young,” he told her, returning his attention to his breakfast. “One day, you know, you’re going to be one of the greatest knights in Tortall. It’s going to be a rare thing then, for you to meet an opponent who can beat you.”

The compliment, dashed off so matter-of-factly, touched her in a way that Owen’s undying faith in her had not. Lord Alexander smiled wryly at her. “To be completely honest with you, I hope it happens after I’m dead. I’ve never liked having competition. But my point is, that day is in the future. Right now, there are knights who can beat you without much difficulty. Wyldon is one of them, and the only thing you can do is learn from them. Even _Raoul_ doesn’t like going up against Wyldon on the tilting field.”

She was still thinking about that, as she sat astride Peachblossom at the end of her lane. In the distance, Lord Wyldon listened to the herald’s instructions. Like her, and unlike most of the other knights she had faced in the fencing court or the tilting lanes, he had sent his friends and family away well before the match began, preferring to wait in silence. The fog that had shrouded the castle grounds in the early morning had burned off, leaving only patchy clouds overhead to veil the brilliant sun, and mud underfoot. Rainstorms, she had observed, were common along the coast this time of year.

When the trumpet sounded, their horses surged forward. Lord Wyldon’s lance struck her shield with the kind of force that only Sir Raoul put behind his strikes; her arm went numb. Her lance hit his shield dead on and shattered. A little dazed, Kel rode back to the end of the lane and shook out her arms, and then accepted a new lance from the field monitor. She and Neal had been right: she was doomed.

Another trumpet blast. Grimly she urged Peachblossom into another gallop. She rose in her stirrups, taking aim. Lord Wyldon was almost upon her before she realized she had set her weight too far forward. In another instant, her lance struck his shield to one side of the boss and skidded away; his lance struck her shield perfectly. She rose higher, her boots slipping out of the stirrups.

She flew clear of Peachblossom’s hooves, turning in the air to take the impact on the flats of her arms. The breath was knocked out of her; the ringing in her ears muffled the sound of hoofbeats. As the spinning world began to slow, she sat up, tugging off her helm.

Lord Wyldon loomed over her, blocking out the sun, his helm under one arm. She blinked up at him. “Coming along nicely, Mindelan,” he said crisply. “I wouldn’t have let you joust until your third year, but I can’t fault Lord Alexander for letting you try now. Need a hand up?”

“No, sir, thank you.” Peachblossom had come over to check on her; she used her saddle to haul herself to her feet.

“Your sword work is coming along as well. I had the good fortune to observe your match with Graeme of Queenscove yesterday. Doubtless your knight-master has already given you advice on that front.”

“Yessir.”

“When tilting, keep your shield higher by an inch or so. Has Joren given you further trouble?”

Kel blinked at him again, surprised by the question. “No, sir, I don’t believe he has.”

Lord Wyldon’s eyebrows ascended. “You don’t believe so? I taught you to report more precisely.”

“He spends considerable time with knights who later challenge me,” she explained, straightening up in response to the chill in his voice. “I’ve seen them eating together, or going for walks. Of course, his family is very well-known. That might account for it.”

“No doubt,” said Wyldon, shaking his head slowly.

There was something she had wanted to ask him since he and the pages had arrived. “My lord — how is Page Fianola’s training going?”

He had been staring off into the distance, but now he returned his attention to her. “Well enough,” he said, a little gruffly. “Some of her academic teachers say that she needs to improve her public speaking. But her archery work is better than yours was at that age.”

She hid a smile. “Thank you, sir.”

“We were beset by hurroks near Fief Tameran,” he went on, after a pause so long she thought the conversation might have ended. “She fought bravely.”

There was a faintly sad look in his eyes, and Kel remembered what he had said to her at the end of her probationary year, speaking to her as if to one of his own daughters. Was he mourning their lost innocence, hers and Fianola’s, or was he thinking of something else?

“Remember what I said about your shield,” he told her, more firmly. “Hold steady, Keladry.”

He rode away, and Kel leaned against her horse. Her body ached all over, and from a brief inspection of her armor, she knew it would take hours to get all the mud out, if not days. “Steady isn’t the problem right now,” she confided in Peachblossom. “Clean is the problem.”

With a sigh, she mounted up again and rode back to the end of the lane, thinking longingly of her next bath.

A bitter gust of wind, a shutter banging against the wall beside the window. With a sigh, Myles of Olau set down the letter in his hand and got up to close the shutters. He caught a glimpse of the oak tree in the courtyard, with its fiery crown of changing leaves against the bright blue sky, and then the shutters were firmly latched and he was returning to his chair.

He had, as usual, a remarkable number of letters to read. He had just finished one from Nahom Jendrai, his former student in Maren. Before that he had read a letter from Daine, telling him of her work as a healer in Tyra and entreating him — not for the first time — to do what he could for Fief Dunlath, which wasn’t much. Myles had asked her once, several years ago now, whether she ever planned on returning to Cría. Her reply was what he had expected: that she missed him, but she’d had her fill of kings and courts for some time. He didn’t blame her at all.

Beside his elbow was a letter from George, and another from Lindhall Reed in Carthak. He opened Reed’s letter next, smiling when the heavy envelope revealed a letter from Alanna hidden inside. News from her came more frequently now, ever since the emperor had invited her and her friends to his court. Setting Reed’s letter aside, he reached eagerly for Alanna’s.

> _Dear Myles,_
> 
> _Well, I’m still here. I know I told you in my last letter that I’m getting cursed bored, but when I started to talk seriously about packing up and heading further south, Faithful told me to wait. He didn’t say why, but I get the sense that something’s coming. I told him I know something’s coming: Kaddar’s impending marriage to Roger’s daughter. I certainly don’t want to be here for that._
> 
> _Did I ever tell you that Thayet and I have a running argument about whether or not Faithful is a god? I always take the position that he’s not, mainly out of stubbornness at this point. After all, he’s far too old to be a normal cat. Once, and only once, Buri joined the debate. She argued that Faithful can’t possibly be a god because he never does anything much, and the gods are said to do things from time to time._
> 
> _Between the three of us and your friend Daine, whom Kaddar certainly hasn’t forgotten, I think we’ve just about cured the emperor of his silly ideas about woman. Just the other day —_

There came a knock at the door, which he had left ajar. Myles looked up from the letter to find one of King Matrurin’s daughters standing there. Princess Liliane pushed the door open a little further, smiling hopefully at him. “Ranulf let me in,” she said. “I wanted to surprise you. But if you’re busy, I can wait downstairs in the kitchen. I think Cook is baking tarts.”

“No, no, my dear, come in,” said Myles, setting down the letter with some reluctance. These days he saw very little of Liliane, who lived at her husband’s fief in Maren, but he had known her from infancy and spent years tutoring her and her sisters in history. She and her husband had returned to court a week ago, for her cousin Marielle’s wedding.

Liliane crossed to the window and sat down across from him, sweeping her skirts gracefully about her. Myles studied her face. It had been a little over a year since he’d last seen her, over a year since her wedding. Since then, she had taken to wearing brighter colors, and a crescent-shaped cap over her pinned-up tumble of blonde curls. Marenite fashions, as Myles understood them. Otherwise, she hadn’t changed much. Wherever she went, a sense of life went with her, bubbling over laughingly as if from a fountain.

“I was glad to learn that you’re still here,” she said. “I’d worried they might have recalled you to Corus.”

He smiled wearily. “Does that seem likely to you?”

She shook her head, making her curls bounce. “You’ve been here so long, it almost seems like Roger’s forgotten about you. Still, one day he might remember, and decide it’s time for a new ambassador.”

“I suppose that’s possible,” said Myles, who had already made his peace with the idea that he would likely die in Cría. At least he was alive and well now, and he had made it out of Corus in one piece. There had been several months after Prince Jonathan’s death — the first Prince Jonathan — when Myles had not been certain he’d be allowed to live.

He gazed at Liliane, who had been born around the time he’d arrived in Cría, and then tried to put the passage of years out of his mind. “Well, are you glad to be back at your father’s court?”

“Yes and no,” she replied. “I’d missed you, and Papa and my sisters. But Mama and I are already at each other’s throats again, and poor Kouray is freezing.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” None of it surprised Myles. Liliane’s relationship with her mother, Queen Josiane, had always been tempestuous at best. And her husband, Kouray of Queen’s Harbor, had been born and raised in southern Maren; winter in Galla didn’t agree with him.

That reminded him of something. “I’m not certain I remembered to write to you at the time, but I was sorry to hear about the death of your husband’s grandfather, back in February.”

She smiled. “You did write, but thank you for saying so. He was such a sweet old man. You would have liked him, I think.”

“I expect I would have,” said Myles. He recalled hearing a few stories about Lord Demir over the years. Half Carthaki on his mother’s side, he had been born into an impoverished minor noble family near Barzun City, and made a living in trade when he grew older. They would have had a lot to talk about, he suspected, had they ever met.

“He traveled quite a lot as a young man, and told marvelous stories about his adventures,” she went on, almost echoing Myles’s thoughts. “He called himself the last of the old Barzunni nobility, you know, though he was only a baby when his family left.”

She toyed with the edge of her sheer lavender veil. “I heard some odd news out of Tortall recently. I’m sure you’ve heard it, too. Evidently King Roger has forbade groups of more than twenty people to gather in any city south of Port Legann.”

Myles shook his head slowly. That news had reached him over a week ago, enclosed in a letter from one of his contacts in Pearlmouth, and he had hoped it was just a rumor. It always worried him when the king did something stupid. “I did hear of it. It seems that Roger was recently embarrassed by a large gathering in Pearlmouth.”

“Kouray is worried about it, too,” she said, her blue eyes sharp on his face. “He thinks it will incite rebellion.”

“I’m not sure he’s wrong.” Myles considered what he intended to say next, carefully weighing each word. He’d heard a few stories about Kouray that he didn’t like: friends among the more revolutionarily-minded nobility in Maren, an ongoing exchange of letters with the Voice of the Tribes. “I’m sure you know there’s already been some movement in that direction.”

She shrugged. “He says that’s just talk. That the southern nobility is too frightened of the Crown to actually fight back.”

“And what do you think?”

Liliane was silent for a moment, her gaze drifting toward the fireplace. “I think that with the right incentive, anyone can be pushed to rebellion. Did you know that in Maren, the nobility is about to lose their land grants? King Barnesh decreed that if we want to keep them, we’ll have to pay dearly. Most of our friends there are livid.”

“Livid enough to rebel against the king?” he asked mildly.

“Of course not. But if they were pushed a little further, perhaps.” She smiled, with all the gentleness and warmth that Josiane’s smile lacked. “I’ve been trying to dissuade them. Barnesh has that huge, modern army, like your Tortallan one. It would crush a handful of rebellious noblemen and noblewomen. I _have_ learned to play politics, Myles.”

He returned her smile, trying to quell the urge to worry about her. He had done his best to guide them over the years, but in the end, she and her sisters would make their own choices, just as Alanna and Daine had — and he, in his old age, would learn to live with whatever they chose. “I never had any doubt of that,” he assured her.

She glanced toward the hearth again, where the fire he’d lit earlier was beginning to die. “Cold in here,” she remarked, as some of the firelight caught her hair, making it shine like gold. “You had the shutters open, didn’t you? We’d better put another log on the fire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue is taken from _Squire_ , particularly Kel and Lord Wyldon's conversation toward the end. In every timeline, Lord Wyldon is the same.


	18. To Bend, Without Breaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, this got too long, and what follows is different in perspective and scope (less narrowly focused on Kel and Alex), so I decided to end this fic here. I'll start posting the third and final story in this AU soon.
> 
> Some of the dialogue is taken from _Squire_ , and there's a line stolen from one of the other books as well.

The last arrow in her quiver struck the target near its center, sinking deep into the wood. Blanketed by two feet of snow, the palace practice yards were quiet but for the sound of Kel’s bowstring and arrows. The air tasted of frost; the sky hung heavy overhead, stark white.

Kel stalked through the snow to retrieve her arrows. After yanking them free, she returned to her circle of tamped-down snow and began shooting again. Only by concentrating hard on the half-remembered Yamani bow she held could she make herself briefly forget the past hour: Vinson’s confession, the shadowy bruises playing over his face and hands, the taut white faces of the royal family and the triumphant smile on Lalasa’s face. Joren’s parting threat to her, in the corridor near her quarters, was almost an afterthought after the scene in the throne room; she’d long been aware that she would need to watch her back around him after he took his Ordeal, which was scheduled in just two days’ time.

At first she thought the figure at the edge of her peripheral vision, dark against the pale landscape, was Lalasa. Then she lowered her bow and turned, tensing when she saw the queen.

Delia stood just beyond the fence. Her skirts were wet to her knees, dark against the path Kel had cut through the snow, and over them she wore a heavy green cloak trimmed with ermine, with the hood pulled up to frame her pale face. She was watching Kel with an expression of polite curiosity.

Kel slid her arrow back into her quiver, turned to face the queen, and bowed to her. When she straightened, Delia was smiling faintly at her. “You know, I was shocked when I first saw one of those things,” she remarked, nodding toward the Yamani bow. “I didn’t know you used them as well, squire. It’s taller than you are.”

“I used to,” said Kel. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, I didn’t realize you were watching.”

The queen shook her head. “I was on my way to the stables, if you can believe that. I’d thought of going for a ride. Silly thought,” she added, gazing around at the snow. “I was heading back inside when I saw you.”

The decision to visit the stables on such a day spoke of either distraction or a stubborn belief that the weather ought to behave according to royal whims. Kel suspected the former: she recalled Delia’s ghostly pale face in the throne room, the mute horrified shock on it as Vinson had made his confession.

Delia hesitated. “Are you all right? You looked shaken, when you walked out of the throne room. I don’t blame you — so was I.”

“I was, Your Majesty,” Kel admitted, knowing she ought to hold her tongue around the queen. She hardly knew her; it wouldn’t be like confiding in Gavain or Jessamine.

“Were you — friends with the Genlith boy?”

Kel stared at her. “No, Your Majesty,” she replied finally. “Quite the opposite.”

The queen nodded slowly. “Forgive me. I know little of the current squires beyond what my sons have told me. Did he — he didn’t attack you, did he?”

Kel had meant to hold her tongue, but when she opened her mouth to answer carefully, a river of words spilled out. “No, he attacked my maid. She didn’t want me to report it, but I should have.” Trying to force herself to concentrate on something else, she pulled another arrow from her quiver and set it against her bowstring, but she was so angry that it wouldn’t keep steady. “She said it was her word against his. That he’d say she led him on, then struggled when she saw me so I wouldn’t blame her for dallying. I could have reported it at the Goddess’s temple, but I didn’t. And then he went after three more girls.”

Delia sighed. “Come on, squire,” she said, to Kel’s surprise. “You’re half frozen and so I am. Let’s go inside.”

As she led Kel through the snow, she said, “You know, you reminded me a little of your knight-master just now.”

“Did I?”

“He’s usually so quiet, but every so often someone will say something that sets him off, and the words just spill out. He’s always been like that, though he got worse after he grew up. We used to play together as children,” she added, in answer to Kel’s inquiring look.

After being outside for so long, the inside of the palace felt uncomfortably warm to Kel. They entered it through a door she had never paid much attention to before, set into a courtyard near the royal wing. She followed the queen down a corridor, listening to Delia’s snow-caked skirts brush against the flagstones as she walked.

Delia led her to an airy sitting room overlooking another courtyard, lit with the pale, cold light of a winter’s morning, and crossed to a delicate bell pull in the corner of the room. There were two chairs set around a graceful little table by the window, and a fire beginning to burn low in the hearth, in need of another log. As a distant bell sounded, she raised her hand, pale pink light shimmering around her fingers. She flicked them, and her Gift flew in a wide arc toward the branches of candles scattered about the room. Kel blinked, surprised.

The queen smiled wryly at her. “Let me guess — you hadn’t realized I was a mage, too. It’s all right, I’m fairly certain that even my lord forgets that sometimes. To be fair to him, I’m not much of a mage.”

A maid appeared, looking expectantly at Delia and curiously at Kel as she straightened from her curtsy. “Tea, please,” said the queen, smiling sweetly at her. “But first, would you revive the hearth fire?”

When the fire was blazing again, Delia sank into one of the armchairs before it, fanning out her skirts as if to dry them. “Please, squire, sit.” She gestured to the chair beside hers.

Kel perched on the edge of the chair, uncomfortable in this elegant room. After a few minutes, the maid returned with a tray, laden with a teapot and two cups. The tea was a bright, almost garish red when she poured it, and smelled familiar and faintly tart.

“There was another boy I used to play with as a child,” said the queen, as she gazed into the fire. “He was about Alex’s age, so a few years older than I was, but his family’s keep was nearer to ours than Tirragen Castle, and our mothers were good friends. My older brother thought he was a bully, but he was always nice enough to me. He went away to page training when Alex did, and a few years later I was sent to the convent. We lost touch, I’m afraid. A few more years passed, and then I heard that he’d been accused of doing something awful.” The queen smiled wearily at Kel. “Drink, it will warm you.”

Kel picked up her cup obediently. She scalded her tongue on the first sip, and blew on the tea before attempting another. It was the same hibiscus tea she’d drunk in Hill Country, and it sent a wave of undeserved warmth through her.

Delia’s smile faded. “Here’s the part where I wish I could tell you something reassuring, but I’m afraid I can’t. When I learned what my childhood friend had done, I didn’t believe it. I thought the girl must have led him on and then lost her nerve. Or that her maid had lied about what she’d seen, or been mad. She had thrown acid in his face, after all.” She shook her head ruefully. “His own family threw him out, and I thought they’d been too hasty. I thought it must have been a misunderstanding.”

Kel stared at her, the tea momentarily forgotten. She had heard this story before, from her mother at Fief Eldorne. “You mean Ralon of Malven,” she said slowly. “But the maid caught him in the act — his own _family_ threw him out —”

“I wanted to think the best of him,” said Delia, meeting her eyes again. “Youthful idealism, perhaps. Or perhaps I thought he was too nobly born to have done something like that. The truth is, I hadn’t thought of him in years, until today — which is probably not how the girl he attacked goes through life, or how his family lives. But that scene in the courtroom brought all of it back to me.”

Kel gazed at her for a few moments in silence. It seemed wrong to judge her too harshly, after what she herself had done — she could have saved three girls from Vinson if she’d only reported his attack on Lalasa at the time.

“Of course, I wasn’t the only person with that opinion about the Malvens, at the time,” Delia went on. “I remember plenty of other courtiers saying the same thing, before somebody got married or betrothed and our attention turned to other matters. Court gossip is such a fickle thing, isn’t it? But my point is, your maid wasn’t wrong, when she told you why she didn’t want you to report Vinson’s attack on her. It _would_ have been her word against his. People would have said all those things about her, and worse. Thank the gods for the Chamber of the Ordeal, and whatever strange magic it worked on him.”

Kel shook her head, feeling vaguely sick at this line of reasoning. “I don’t want to rely on the Chamber to punish wrongdoing. Ralon of Malven didn’t have to face the Chamber.”

“No, that would be an inefficient system of justice to say the least.” Delia took a sip of her tea. “Still, the Goddess Temple’s court couldn’t have put Vinson through what the Chamber has. No court could have. It made him _feel_ what he did to those girls, which has to be more effective than hard labor or banishment.”

There was a pause, as Kel took another sip of her own tea, letting that sink in, and then Delia said, unexpectedly, “We’re talking of my dressmaker, aren’t we? The same maid who was kidnapped when you were meant to take your examinations?”

Surprise must have shown on Kel’s face, for all she tried to hide it. “I didn’t realize you knew about that, Your Majesty.”

Delia smiled wryly at her. “I do try to keep abreast of what’s going on at court. Besides, my lord was furious about those rusted stairs.”

A memory struck Kel suddenly: Thom of Trebond in the office of the palace watch, promising to tell the king about the weathered outer staircase of Balor’s Needle. “I remember they were repaired very quickly, after Lalasa and I came down from the tower.”

“They certainly were. And of course, the repairs were in full swing when Alex asked you to be his squire. My husband can be very protective, you know, when he considers someone to belong to him. I can assure you _he_ remembers what happened to your maid.”

She sipped her tea. “Last I checked, the Council of Lords was in the process of revising the law you brought to my lord’s attention last year. The process of governance tends to work slowly — but it does often work. Your petition might have done far more good for girls like Lalasa than reporting an attack against her wishes and potentially ruining her reputation.”

Kel frowned at her. “Vinson attacked three more girls after that. I could have prevented that if I’d reported him.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps he’d have been let off with a warning, the whole thing swept under a rug, and he would have gone off and attacked them anyway.” Delia sighed. Some of the color had returned to her face, since they’d sat down beside the fire. “You can spend your life beating yourself up over things you could have done differently, but it doesn’t do much good.”

They were going to have to agree to disagree about some things, thought Kel, but she had a point there. She smiled ruefully at the queen. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I wasn’t trying to wallow in guilt.”

“Nor was I.” Delia raised her cup to her, smiling. “A blessed Midwinter to you and yours. My daughter tells me you practice polearms with our Yamani ladies at dawn,” she added, as Kel toasted her in response. “She’s very eager to join you. To be honest, I’m fairly certain she _has_ joined you already, and made Shinkokami swear to keep it a secret from me.”

Kel kept her face carefully blank. “Princess Jessamine would be welcome at practice, I’m sure.”

Delia was gazing toward the fire, her expression thoughtful. “Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad thing for her to learn how to defend herself. I was afraid that Jon wouldn’t like it, and that there would be talk — but there’s a danger in letting men rule our lives, isn’t there?”

Kel nodded. That, at least, she agreed with.

An odd look had come over Delia’s face, as though she’d just thought of something very clever, the punchline to some grand joke. “I may join your practice myself, though I’m sure I’ll make a fool of myself.”

Kel had the distinct impression she was thinking about what the king might say to that, but his reaction seemed less important than how happy Shinko would be to see her mother-in-law take up the naginata. “Not at all, Your Majesty,” she reassured her. “Everyone has to start somewhere.”

The door clanged shut behind him, and he was alone in the dark. The dark had never really bothered Joren. He stood there for a few moments, silent and unmoving, wondering whether this was all the Ordeal was: some grand joke everyone played on squires, where they just shut the door on you and left you alone in the dark with your own thoughts.

Now we shall see, a voice in his head seemed to say, whether you have learned how to bend without breaking.

Joren tensed. That voice had seemed to come from something independent of himself, and it was vaguely familiar. A memory returned to him unbidden: he had heard a voice in his head the first time he had touched the iron door, the night after he’d passed the big examinations, and then lost a fight to Keladry of Mindelan in his own mind.

As if in answer to his thoughts, something moved out of the shadows. He found himself standing in the first fencing gallery, a sword in his hands and his breath a white cloud in the chill of the room. He struck, moving instinctively. Keladry blocked his attack, her face blank.

She pivoted, sliding her blade away from his, and he attacked again. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” she asked, parrying his strike with a sudden smile. It didn’t look quite right on her face; there was something lurking beneath the smile that made him uneasy. “Aren’t you going to tell me they should have made me repeat four years of page training?”

He kept his mouth shut. This was his Ordeal, it seemed, and he knew he couldn’t make a sound until it was over. He attacked low, and she blocked him again. That was odd — she didn’t usually fight this defensively, not since she’d started training with the king’s lapdog.

“They made an exception for me,” she went on, conversationally. “I was late to the exams, but they didn’t fail me. They let me rest for a few days, and then held a special exam just for me.”

This wasn’t the real Keladry. The real one never talked this much. He lunged in, frustrated, and she retreated just in time. This fight was too easy; she was letting him lead it in a way she never had before. It was an illusion, some mage’s trick to unsettle him and trick him into speaking.

She smiled again, looking uncharacteristically smug. “Don’t you want to know how I pulled that off?”

Joren shook his head. He had the sense that she was wasting his time, that there was something he was supposed to be doing here in the Chamber, and she was preventing him from getting it over with.

“Can’t you guess? A pretty girl like me, showing off my legs in front of all those men?”

He lunged in again. Quick as a snake, she disengaged, her blade twisting around his. He jumped back just in time, before the point of her sword bit into his chest. “Or maybe that’s not what happened at all,” she said. “Maybe I’m just better than you.”

She moved again before he could react, her blade glinting in the lamplight. Bright pain seared his collarbone, red bloomed on the undyed cloth, and then she was gone. He was alone again in the dark.

Movement to his left. A spidren grinned down at him, its eyes bright and teeth needle-sharp. It clutched a battle-axe as it had in life, when he had fought it as a third-year page alongside the men of the King’s Own. He took a step back, falling into guard position. His heart pounded in his chest; for all his bravado going into that fight, he had nearly thrown up the first time he’d encountered a spidren at close quarters.

The spidren cocked its head. “What’s this?” it said, in a voice that sent prickles of disgust down his back. It felt unnatural to hear it speak. “Afraid of spiders? Why, you’re only a boy. You won’t be much of a meal.”

It moved toward him, massive legs skittering over the flagstones. Gritting his teeth so hard his jaw hurt, Joren lunged in with his sword held high, and missed. The spidren reared up on its hind legs, and the world went white.

He was encased in something that clung to his skin, his clothes. Wherever it touched him, it burned like acid. He struggled to breathe, thrashing on the cold flagstones while something heavy skittered ever closer on long, long legs.

Suddenly he could breathe again. He gulped in cold air, his eyes streaming. He lay on his side in the darkness, his ankles and wrists bound with coarse ropes. Strong winds plucked insistently at his clothes. He struggled to sit up, his limbs screaming in protest, and found that he could see dimly through a hole in the floor a few feet from where he sat.

The sun was setting. Far below him, rooftops gleamed golden in the fading light; above him the sky was darkening into night. He lay on a stone platform at the top of Balor’s Needle.

The ropes bit into his skin as he struggled, until the pain made him fall still at last, breathing hard. As the wind chilled his sweat in the gathering darkness, Joren took stock of the new situation in which he’d found himself. Was _this_ his Ordeal, then? He recalled what the Chamber had done to Vinson, and shivered involuntarily.

Aside from the ropes, it wasn’t unlike his silent vigil in the chapel, before he had stepped into the Chamber itself. Trying to forget physical discomfort now, as he had then, Joren shifted to a position that didn’t make him feel like his wrists were on fire, and resumed his meditation on the decline of the realm. In his father’s youth, there had been no female squires; the king had been a good and moral man, guided by the gods and by strong advisors, not some degenerate mage.

He lost track of how much time he spent at the top of the tower. The light finished fading away, sparing him the sight of those rooftops below him; stars blazed in the deep blue overhead. He watched the moon rise, hanging huge and golden as a coin over the palace. After a long time, the sky began to lighten in the east, and he heard tentative birdsong.

It was past dawn when the door to the inner staircase opened, and Keladry stumbled out onto the platform. Drawing her belt knife, she knelt before him. He flinched away from her.

She didn’t seem to notice. “Can you stand?” she asked, as she cut the ropes binding his ankles and wrists.

He tried to push himself to his feet, but his limbs were not his own. They were stiff, leaden things, blazing suddenly with pain. He sprawled on the platform, shaking his head.

She rubbed his ankles, making them prickle unpleasantly. “We need to move,” she told him. “The men who kidnapped you might still be here. They —”

The door slammed, making them both jump. She stared at it for a moment, wide-eyed, and then got to her feet. Giving the opening to the outer stair a wide berth, she crossed to the door and yanked on it, but it held firm. “Locked.” Her voice was faint, scared, almost inaudible over the wind. “I suppose . . .”

She glanced toward the outer stair, and he understood. He shook his head again.

“We have to,” she insisted. “Nobody knows you’re up here, we don’t know whether they’re planning to come back and kill us.” She reached down, offering him a hand up. “Come on.”

Joren glared up at her, disgust roiling in the pit of his stomach. Gritting his teeth, he shook his head again.

“Come on,” she repeated. “I — I’ll go first.”

He stayed where he was, watching her slide across the platform on her backside, toward the staircase. Her face was white; he could see sweat gleaming on her forehead. She really was terrified, he thought, as if from a distance.

She disappeared through the opening to the outer stair. He could hear the iron creaking below, the sound of footsteps on the rarely used staircase. After a few moments, he got to his feet and tried the door again.

It opened for him. Feeling smug, he stepped through the doorway into darkness, and tumbled into open air.

He was lying in the courtyard at the base of the tower. One of his legs throbbed with pain, stinging where the air cooled his bare flesh. He sat up, wincing at the sharp ache in his back, and looked down. He had torn his hose; there was a long gash that oozed blood, close enough to the big artery in his thigh to worry him. He didn’t remember getting hurt. He didn’t remember falling.

“Some of the stairs have rusted,” said Gavain of Conté.

Joren turned, startled, and saw the prince kneeling beside him. “I can fix it, if you let me,” said Gavain.

He shook his head.

The prince frowned. “The infection’s starting to set in.”

Joren shook his head again, so hard it ached.

“Are you planning on being this stubborn in the field? If you’re wounded fighting Scanran raiders in service to the crown, will you refuse help just because you don’t like the healer?”

Joren only sneered at him. Gavain had no business sounding this superior, not when he was the son of a jumped-up hill barbarian and a degenerate coward who infected innocent people from afar.

With a shrug, Gavain faded away, leaving him alone in the dark again. Joren climbed to his feet and took a few tentative steps forward. His legs were shaky, but undamaged.

Another step forward, and he was standing in a dimly lit bedchamber he knew. Gray northern light filtered in through the narrow window. He took another step toward the bed, afraid of what he might see there, and gazed down at his father. Lord Burchard’s face was pale and gleaming with sweat. He slept fitfully, alternately shivering violently and trying to throw his blankets off. Joren remembered nights like this, the sight of his father shivering in the summer heat and the long agony of waiting for something to change.

His mother entered the room, holding a bowl of cool water and a cloth. As she sank into the chair beside the bed, there came a sudden choking sound. Lord Burchard woke, a dry cough racking his thin frame, and his lady helped him to sit up. When he lay down again, shuddering, she dabbed at his forehead with a damp cloth.

“You should return to the palace,” said a familiar voice.

Joren turned, and saw his uncle standing beside him, looking haggard and sober. “Sir Paxton has his duty to the crown to think of, and you owe a duty to him. Your father is being looked after.”

There had been a real conversation like this, Joren recalled. How had he responded, then? He had dim memories of arguing that he couldn’t leave his father when he was like this, that he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if Lord Burchard took a turn for the worse in his absence. Now he could only shake his head.

His uncle frowned. “Burchard would hate to see you shirk your duty. You’re his only son. He wants you to finish your training, and become a knight of the realm.”

From the bed, his father began to cough again. “Go,” said his uncle. “He’ll be all right.”

Joren watched his mother wipe the sweat from his father’s forehead again, as shadows crept first over his uncle and then over the bedside tableau. In the end, he had let the healers reassure him, let his uncle and his mother persuade him to return to the palace with Sir Paxton, and his father had survived. Joren had not shirked his duty; he had made it to the Chamber of the Ordeal in the end. This, too, was part of his Ordeal.

“There now,” said another voice from behind him. It was a warm, pleasant voice, less familiar to him than his uncle’s. “You’ve passed your Ordeal. You’re a knight of the realm.”

Joren turned, frowning, and saw the king standing before him. He took a step back, tensing. One of his hands went to his sword belt, and he discovered he was unarmed.

The king stepped forward, his mage robes whispering as he moved, the lamplight glinting on the jewels he wore. They were alone together in the throne room, where two days ago the Chamber had tortured Vinson into disgracing himself before the Lord Magistrate and the royal family. “You’ve passed your Ordeal,” the king repeated. “Do you know what happens next?”

Joren eyed him warily, waiting.

“You swear an oath of fealty to the crown, pledging to defend Tortall to the best of your ability, for as long as you shall live. To give your life, if need be, for king and country.” Roger paused for a moment, smiling faintly. “Is that something you’re prepared to do?”

There was a sword in the king’s hand. Joren hadn’t seen him draw it, but it was there all the same. He took another step backward.

The king gestured to the flagstones before him, looking expectantly at Joren. “You may kneel, Sir Joren. Serve honorably and well.”

Joren remained standing, his skin prickling with revulsion. He felt his lip begin to curl, and struggled to keep his expression neutral.

“Kneel.”

Joren shook his head.

With a weary sigh, Roger stepped forward, closing the distance between them before Joren could back away. He seized him roughly, one hand gripping his shoulder and the other tangled in his hair, and forced him to his knees. Joren struggled, and found himself bound again by ropes he could not see.

The fingers untangled from his hair; the bruising touch left his shoulder. Joren glowered at the floor, refusing to look at him.

“Do you think you’re the first person to defy me?” asked Roger coolly, as the flat of his sword touched Joren’s bruised right shoulder. His voice grew warmer; Joren had the sense that he was smiling. “Joren, if I wanted to, I could pull the very blood from your veins. I could stop your heart, or set a fever upon you that would roast your brain inside your skull.” The sword tapped his left shoulder. “Now, do you agree to serve the crown for all of your days?”

Joren kept his mouth shut, and his gaze trained on the floor.

Gently, the flat of the sword tapped his head. “Look at me,” said the king.

Joren didn’t move. After a moment, a hand gripped his chin and forced his head up. He glared up at the king, who smiled calmly down at him.

“Do you swear?”

Joren spat at him. Roger blinked, frowning, and examined the wet spot on his tunic. He sheathed his sword calmly, and then backhanded Joren across the face.

The king was gone; morning light shone down on him. Joren sprawled over the flagstones, tasting blood. Wincing, he spat weakly on the floor.

“Get up,” said Keladry. “They’re going to come back.”

She reached a hand down to him. Joren stared at it, appalled. The wind whipped at her hair; behind her the outer staircase fell away into open air. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, hesitating.

“We have to climb down. We can’t stay up here any longer.”

The wind rose; to his horror, the tower began to sway gently. Her face went dead white. He recalled standing at the base of the chestnut tree years ago, jeering up at her as she clung desperately to the trunk only a few feet above his head. Stone shuddered under him, and he swallowed nervously. “You _have_ to get up,” she said.

He blinked eyes that streamed in the wind, and then he reached up and took her hand.

The brief ceremony that would follow his Ordeal was scheduled for sunset. As the morning crawled toward midday, Joren felt only a mounting sense of numb dread, with none of the pride and excitement of his parents. He felt like he’d failed, caving at the last moment instead of holding firm, before the door had swung open and he’d stumbled out of the dark.

At first he hadn’t been able to speak at all, only nod and shake his head mutely at Sir Paxton, who had caught him on his way through the door. “It happens sometimes,” Sir Paxton had reassured his mother, after his silence had worn on for long enough to worry her. “The Chamber is — hard. The lads usually speak after an hour or so.”

Joren was silent until Lord Wyldon came to check on him. He received the training master in his family’s palace sitting room, sitting across from him at a little table crowded with cups of spiced cider one of the maids had brought them.

Lord Wyldon looked exhausted, his face etched with lines that hadn’t been there when Joren had started his page training. The past several years, evidently, had taken a toll on him. “Your mother tells me you won’t speak,” he said, his voice grave.

Joren swallowed. His tongue felt strangely heavy in his mouth, weighed down as if by some invisible force.

“I must say, though it pains me to do so — I’m very relieved you didn’t immediately call for an audience with Duke Turomot and the king, to confess some wrongdoing I’d had no inkling of.”

Joren stared at him, uncertain. Did he blame _Vinson_ for that scene in the throne room? Every squire dallied with commoner girls; his family’s enemies had only targeted Vinson to make a point, the way the king had targeted Lord Burchard at the congress three and a half years ago.

“I haven’t forgotten your trial,” said Lord Wyldon, gazing at him with eyes that held no warmth, no sympathy. “It was unconscionable, what you did to Squire Keladry’s maid. Still, the Chamber of the Ordeal saw fit to release you alive. I sincerely hope that means you’ve taken some time to meditate on the laws of chivalry, and come to the realization that you behaved very badly.” He paused for a moment, the silence heavy between them. “Will you not speak? If this silence drags on for much longer, you’ll have trouble swearing your oath of fealty to the crown tonight.”

At that, Joren felt a chill. “No,” he said, his voice hoarse from lack of use.

Wyldon’s expression shifted: lightening first with relief, and then clouding over with confusion and suspicion. “No?”

“I — can’t. I can’t swear.”

Wyldon’s frown only deepened. “You are a knight of the realm,” he said, sounding more disappointed than Joren had ever heard him. “You made it through your Ordeal alive, without being driven mad in the process or confessing to further crimes that shame the institution of knighthood. You _will_ swear an oath to the crown, and with any luck become a better knight than you were a squire.”

With that he rose from his chair, leaving most of his cider untouched. “I will see you in the throne room this evening,” he told Joren. “I’ll let your parents know you’ve recovered from your silence.”

The shadows were growing long, the afternoon sun throwing a rusty light over the trees that stood sentry along the edge of the Royal Forest. With dusk coming on fast, Joren ought to have been getting ready for his ceremony of knighthood: bathing or dressing, or even just waking up from the nap he’d told his parents he intended to take to dull his pounding headache.

The headache began to subside as he neared Balor’s Needle. He found the door at the base of the tower unlocked; the shadows inside smelled like wood polish, wax, and the memory of incense. Beside the door stood a table with a lamp burning, its light doing little to dispel the gloom, and a box full of torches.

He needed to face the scene of his Ordeal, he’d decided, though he couldn’t say whether that was entirely his own decision, or if something had compelled him to come here: some force that lurked within the Chamber, perhaps the same power that had stayed with Vinson long enough for everyone in the throne room to see the dance of bruises on his skin, appearing and disappearing and appearing again, like a Copper Isles shadow play. The uncertainty ought to have frightened him, but fear kept its distance now. Feeling little more than the absence of his headache, Joren lit one of the torches and began to climb the inner stair.

At the top of the stair was another unlocked door, leading out onto a stone platform. The hair on the back of his neck prickled as he stepped out onto it: it was, unmistakably, the platform he’d seen during his Ordeal. Beside the door was an opening onto the outer stair. In the fading light, he could see rooftops far below, blanketed with patchy snow.

He stood on the platform, drawing his coat tightly around him against the bitter wind, and gazed out into the soft light of a winter’s dusk. The sun was low in the west, setting the scattered clouds alight; high above, the stars were beginning to come out. He was beginning to feel something like peace.

He had tried to do what was right, but rigid adherence to his sense of right and wrong had done him no favors; the Chamber had told him that much. He thought of the rising wind, the swaying tower, and then he remembered how he had taken Keladry’s hand and felt sick. But he thought he understood now: a knight’s work involved some measure of compromise. The real world was complicated and messy, and ground the idealists under its heel. The only practical thing he could do now was grit his teeth and swear allegiance to the king. It was either that or jump, as pages and squires who had failed some part of their training occasionally did.

There came a creak from behind him. Joren turned, surprised, and froze. The king stood there in the open doorway, looking at him with a kind of startled curiosity. Behind him, in the central well of the tower, the chandelier blazed.

For a moment they regarded one another in silence. Roger looked older than he had in the Chamber of the Ordeal; there was a touch of gray in his beard and at his temples that Joren had never noticed before. Usually he saw him from a distance, seated on some dais or another, or astride a horse. With a heavy woolen cloak obscuring whatever finery he wore underneath, he looked almost ordinary. “I hadn’t realized there was anyone up here,” he said finally. “You’re the young man who took his Ordeal today, aren’t you?”

Joren knew he was supposed to bow. He ought to have done it already; he knew he was insulting the king. His heart pounded in his chest, but he couldn’t make himself move.

“They told me you wouldn’t speak,” said the king, gazing intently at him. “I hope you’ll forgive me my concern, but after what happened with Vinson of Genlith, I find myself rather curious about what exactly you’re doing up here. You weren’t planning on jumping, were you?”

Mutely, Joren shook his head. It was beginning to ache again, a dull painful throb emanating from somewhere behind his eyes. He felt as though someone were trying to pry his skull open. Wincing slightly, he watched as the king crossed to the railing and gazed out into the dusk. For a long moment he stood in silence, watching the stars appear over the shadowed rooftops and hills of Corus. Lights were beginning to appear far below, lamps being lit as if in answer to the stars.

“I find Balor’s Needle helpful for clearing my head,” said Roger. “Something about the climb, and the view from the platform — it’s as though I leave anything that’s troubling me on the ground below.” He was silent for another moment, not looking at Joren. “You’re going to be late for your ceremony.”

Joren drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, rubbing his temples. The headache had begun to fade again, though the bitter wind didn’t help. It carried the scent of snow, clean and blank, with notes of woodsmoke from chimneys far below. He caught another scent, expensive and faintly spicy, a little muskier than his mother’s perfume, and felt his lip curl with disgust.

“I do have some qualms about knighting you, mind.”

Joren looked up at him, suddenly wary. A memory struck him: standing outside the great hall at Ketan Castle while the king’s daughter berated him, her untidy hair crackling like a stormcloud about her head. Roger turned, looking at him with some of the same haughty distaste that Jessamine had, as though Joren were something unpleasant the king had found on the sole of his shoe. Then he said, unexpectedly, “I never should have let things get to this point.”

Joren frowned at him, puzzled, and his expression softened into something like regret. “Poor Gavain. I can’t believe I never noticed.”

That sent a shock of indignation through Joren. His father had nearly _died_ , and everyone was worried about Gavain. They must have coddled the prince, if he’d run crying to his parents after a little hazing, hardly worse than every other page got. Joren had never even hit him. For an instant, he felt some sense of his Ordeal return to him, a twinge of discomfort at the profound unfairness of the world, and then it was gone, leaving him shivering on the stone platform.

Roger cocked his head to one side, gazing down at him thoughtfully. “I have been a negligent father,” he said. “It pains me to admit it.”

“That’s not my problem,” Joren heard himself say.

He’d half expected, or maybe even wanted, the king to strike him down for it. But Roger only blinked at him, looking surprised, and then laughed. He stopped laughing abruptly, his expression shifting again: there was an oddly vulnerable look in his eyes, like that of a wounded animal. “How you despise me,” he murmured, almost wonderingly. “I never realized.”

Joren stared back at him. If he was ever going to get some small measure of justice, it was here, standing face to face with the man who had tried to kill his father over a petty slight. “You made him ill, didn’t you? You infected him with your magic.” He thought of the Sweating Sickness that had ravaged Corus, years before he was born. “You’ve done it before.”

Roger sighed, suddenly weary, and turned to gaze out over the city again, at the lamps mirroring the stars overhead, like the sky reflected on water. “Look at them all,” he said, as if in answer to Joren’s accusation. “Going about their little lives, heedless of the choices and bargains made by greater men. When you paid two scoundrels to kidnap a mere maidservant, did you spend any time thinking about what it would be like to be trapped up here for hours, cold and bound, with ropes digging into your skin? Of course you didn’t.”

Against his better judgment, Joren joined him at the railing. The wind whipped at his hair. “Or if it did cross your mind,” the king went on, “you decided it was worth it. You weighed the life of one commoner girl against your goals, petty as they were, and decided to sacrifice her. She could have died, you know. It’s not as though there was anything to prevent her from rolling through the opening to the outer stair in the dark.”

A few scattered white flakes swirled past them. It had begun to snow lightly. “You’re scarcely more than a child,” said Roger, studying his face again. “I am the only king you’ve ever known; you have no idea what life was _like_ under Roald. He let this kingdom stagnate. He was afraid of magic — of power generally, really. He was terrified of becoming too like his father, so he refused to act at all. He was running Tortall into the ground, and I had no reason to believe his son would do a better job.”

Joren shivered again. There was no good reason for the king to be telling him any of this.

Roger turned back to the open air that lay before them, the scattered lights in the gathering dusk, and peered over the side of the railing. “It’s such a long way down,” he remarked, as if only making idle conversation.

Kel had absolutely no desire to see Joren officially knighted. She was grateful to discover that her knight-master seemed to understand that implicitly. “I doubt Roger’s even going to notice if we’re in the throne room,” he remarked, handing her a slate and chalk. “The crowds will be thick enough without us. Let’s do some trigonometry instead.”

She smiled at him, and then got to work.

The knock on the door came about an hour into their evening of mathematics, a quick staccato rapping that startled her out of a haze of numbers. Lord Alexander looked up, frowning, as his manservant Enno went to answer the door.

Thom of Trebond swept into the room, his robes billowing around him. He stopped short when he saw them sitting beside the fireplace. The look of grim exhaustion vanished abruptly from his face. “Gods, you have no idea, do you?” he said, smiling incredulously. “You’ve been here this whole time.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” said Lord Alexander.

He collapsed into an unoccupied chair. “The Stone Mountain boy didn’t show up for his ceremony of knighthood. That didn’t _entirely_ come as a surprise; rumor was he’d been acting strangely since he emerged from the Chamber. Quiet, withdrawn, that sort of thing. Well, Roger sent the palace watch to look for him. They found his body at the base of Balor’s Needle.”

Kel nearly dropped her slate. “What?”

He leaned forward, looking conspiratorially from one of them to the other and back again. “Presumably he jumped. At least, there’s no sign there was anyone else up there with him. No second torch, no lit chandelier — of course, any mage worth their salt can easily light that chandelier and extinguish the candles again without leaving any evidence behind. Naturally, though, his distraught family has already started spreading wild rumors.”

“You mean they’re blaming Kel,” said Lord Alexander flatly.

She stared at him, as Thom replied, “For the most part, yes, but also you, me, and a whole host of progressives out to get their family. They stopped short of trying to pin it on the king, but I think I’m meant to have acted as his agent in some of these rumors.”

Lord Alexander sighed, rubbing his temples wearily. “Well, this is certainly shaping up to be quite the Midwinter holiday, isn’t it? Who takes his Ordeal tonight?”

“Garvey of Runnerspring,” said Kel. “One of Joren’s cronies.”

He raised his eyebrows. “He’ll certainly have an audience.”

It was hard to concentrate on trigonometry after that. After a while, Lord Thom got up briefly to ward the sitting room door with purple fire, and Enno put another log on the hearth fire. The candle he had lit earlier still burned merrily in the window against the cold and the dark, but nobody seemed to be paying much attention to it.

“Are you all right?” asked Lord Alexander quietly. Beside him, Thom had fallen asleep in his chair, curled up awkwardly with his face turned away from the hearth.

Kel considered that. She seemed to be drifting in a place somewhere between relief and melancholy. It seemed unreal: impossible that Joren was really dead, impossible that she was finally free of him. She had expected to feel happy when that day finally came — when she heard the news that he had died in battle, or of some illness. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “I think I almost feel sorry for Joren. That sounds mad, doesn’t it?”

He shook his head. “He was very young.”

She nodded. She had never expected Joren to change his ways, not after the kidnapping, but knowing that he would never have the chance made her feel tired and unexpectedly sad. Years from now, when she was Lord Alexander’s age, she would look back on Joren and see him frozen there in time, a boy who had never atoned for anything. He would look very young to her, too, then.

Lord Thom stirred in his chair, wincing, and then opened his eyes. “That was a horrible idea,” he said, sitting up. “I’m going to bed.” None of them said anything when he swept into Lord Alexander’s room and pulled the door shut behind him.

There came a second shock the next morning. Kel rose early as usual and went down to her morning naginata practice. When she returned, Lord Alexander sat before a table laden with breakfast, dressed in his practice clothes. His hair was slightly damp with sweat. “Thom’s already gone,” he told her. “The palace watch wanted him to take another look at Balor’s Needle in the morning light.”

Kel nodded. She sat down at the table beside him, and he poured her some tea. “I’m told that Garvey of Runnerspring completed his Ordeal without incident,” he remarked. “Apparently he spoke right after he emerged from the Chamber. He’s behaving — normally, considering what happened to his friends.”

She’d never been so relieved to hear that one of Joren’s cronies had survived something. “Good,” she replied, and blew across the surface of her tea to cool it. They ate in silence for several minutes, and then she said, “The queen joined us for practice this morning.”

Lord Alexander choked on his tea. “Sorry?”

“She was very self-conscious at first, until Princess Jessamine knocked her down. That lightened the mood considerably. Apparently the queen thought it was funny.”

The look on her knight-master’s face wasn’t any less funny; despite the lingering strangeness of Joren’s death, Kel found herself cheering up at the sight of it. “I see,” he said wonderingly, as she returned to her meal with newfound enthusiasm.

They were nearly done when there came a knock at the door. Enno answered it, and the king stalked into the room. Kel pushed her chair back automatically, to stand at attention beside the table. Lord Alexander rose more slowly, looking puzzled. “Sire, to what do I owe —”

“Wyldon of Cavall has resigned from the position of training master.”

Kel stared at the king. “What?”

“Would you bring us something to drink?” her knight-master murmured to her. Enno had already begun to clear the table, silently and efficiently; as if in a daze, she went to gather cups and a bottle of wine.

“I received word this morning,” said the king, sinking into the chair Kel had vacated. Lord Alexander sat down again slowly, his eyes fixed on Roger’s. “He won’t reconsider.”

“Did Wyldon give you a reason? Thank you,” he added softly, as Kel set two cups of wine before them.

“He blames himself for what happened with Vinson and Joren.” Roger took a sip of wine, shaking his head. “And now I have to conjure a new training master out of thin air, in the middle of Midwinter.”

“Would you leave us for a while?” said Lord Alexander to Kel. “And please, don’t mention this to your friends. Not until the official announcement goes out.”

“Yessir.” She left the bottle on the table between them, and then left the room.

He hadn’t forbidden her to talk to Lord Wyldon about it. She found him where she’d expected to: in his office, packing up his belongings. It was only after she’d knocked on the half-open door that it occurred to her he might not want to see her.

He glanced up, his eyes meeting hers evenly. “I suppose the king is with Alexander now, asking him for his opinion as to who should replace me.” It surprised her a little to hear him call her knight-master by his first name. “What brings you here?”

“Sir, what happened with Vinson and Joren — you can’t blame yourself. You’re a wonderful training master. You can’t go.” The words came out in a rush before she could stop herself.

He sighed, took his time wrapping a stone hawk figure in cloth to protect it, and then glanced up at her again. “Come in and close the door, Mindelan.”

When she was perched on the edge of a chair, a compromise between standing and being comfortable in his domain, he stowed the hawk figure carefully away in his crate and went on, “I must confess, some part of me was surprised when Joren made it out of the Chamber alive at all. I suppose it was the same part of me that wasn’t surprised to learn he later jumped from Balor’s Needle.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I missed it. I spoke with him shortly after his Ordeal, and I had no inkling of what he intended to do. Perhaps I didn’t want to see it.”

He looked up again, gazing at her in silence for a moment, and then reached for the inkwell on his desk. “I told the lads to be aggressive, to concentrate on their goal. I lost sight, I think, of what it really takes to be a good knight: not merely technical skill, but some sense of honor and compassion. Joren and Vinson lacked that, and I failed to weed them out before they were made squires, as I should have.”

Kel watched him, uncertain, as he continued packing. He had a point: she’d often thought that he ignored, or even seemed to encourage, the bullying of first-year pages. After another pause, he said, “Mindelan, it may that the best thing said of my tenure is that you were my student. Should that be the case, I _am_ the wrong man for this post. I did all I could to get rid of you. Thank Mithros I remembered my honor and let you stay when you met the conditions — but it was a near thing, and then I tried to prevent the next girl from becoming a page. It’s time for someone new.”

The office was emptying out, his impending absence from the palace growing steadily more tangible. “Sir, I learned so much from you,” she said, trying to stave off the inevitable. “You’re the kind of knight I want to be.”

He stared at her for another moment, a strange look in his eyes. “I am not. But that you believe it is the greatest compliment I will ever receive.” She watched him wrap a few sticks of sealing wax in cloth and tuck them away in the crate. “In the end, Mindelan, we all must do what we believe is right. That is why I’ve chosen to resign. Please, do not argue with me further. If you’re going to snivel, do it outside my office.”

As she rose from her chair, he added, “If the king can’t decide, tell him I said Padraig haMinch. He’s old blood, conservative, and a Minchi.”

She nodded. “Sir, what will you do?”

“Go home,” he replied, opening another desk drawer and surveying its contents. “Idle about until my wife threatens to leave me. Come spring, I’ve asked for a position on the northern border. While the king frets over the southern coast, Scanra is on the move, and I’d like to do what I can on that front.”

Kel nodded again, unable to trust her voice for a moment. After straightening from a bow, she turned to leave, and then hesitated in the doorway. “Safe travels, my lord.”

A faint smile softened his face. “The same to you, Keladry. Mithros watch over you.”

In the Temple of the Sun in Corus, the city’s grandest temple to Mithros, there was a great clock which was said to keep the most accurate time in Tortall, a marvel of magical engineering. On his desk, the king kept a miniature version of the clock in the Temple of the Sun, which he recalibrated to match the original every quarter of the year.

It had begun to chime the hour again, over the tranquil sound of Finn strumming his lute in the corner of the sitting room. Roger glanced up from his paperwork, raising his eyebrows when he noticed how late it was. “It’s midnight,” he remarked, rubbing his temples to ease the beginnings of a headache.

Thom didn’t appear to have heard him. He sat curled up in an armchair by the fireplace, fully absorbed in the book he’d borrowed from Roger’s collection. He had spent days scouring the palace libraries for it, before idly mentioning that he supposed he was going to have to send to Carthak for it. The look on his face when Roger told him that he had a copy of it in his sitting room had been very funny.

Firelight played over his bright hair. He rested his chin on his fist, lips slightly parted as he stared down at his book. Roger watched him for a moment, half annoyed and half amused. “Have you fallen into a trance, my dear? Did you find the information you were looking for?”

Thom blinked. “What? Oh, yes. There’s so much detail here I think I can recreate these spells without much more trouble. I can’t say I think much of Iceblade Regengar’s surviving treatises on weather magic — far too elementary, and written in that awful condescending style that always drove me up the wall when I was a student — but he did have a solid grasp on the mechanics of peregrine ships. And the goodness to write everything down, so we mere mortals could understand it two centuries later.”

Roger smiled. “You can take that with you. It’s getting rather late.” He glanced over at Finn, whose head was bowed over his lute, his auburn hair glinting in the warm light. He had been playing for hours, and was starting to look tired.

Thom looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t you _want_ a boat that can make it from Port Caynn to Corus in under an hour? You could have Gavain’s bride ferried here via peregrine ship, to show off your royal power. We can paint it blue and silver.”

“She’ll be coming from Port Legann.”

His attention had returned to the book. “Hm? Oh, that’s right. I suppose I was thinking of Shinkokami.” He waved his hand idly, without looking up again. “I’m bored of this song, musician. Sing us a different one.”

“Aren’t you tired?” asked Roger.

“You want to be rid of me,” said Thom, turning a page. He glanced at Finn, smiling unkindly. “Are _you_ tired, musician? Eager to be in bed?”

Finn looked up, startled to have been addressed, but his hands didn’t falter on his lute. “No, my lord, I’m not especially tired,” he said quietly.

“He’s too young for you,” Thom informed Roger, returning his attention to the book. His robes rustled softly as he resettled his long legs under him. “Then again, you’ve always liked them young and malleable, haven’t you? Personally, I think you’re bored. You’ve been staring at those crop reports for over an hour now. Who cares how many acres of olives they’re growing in Hill Country?”

Roger gazed at him for a moment in silence. Thom’s face was serene, his mind like glass. Bright thoughts moved on the surface of it — a ship moving over blue water, a complex theorem — but whatever lay underneath remained inaccessible to him, as it always had. It didn’t really matter. He had never trusted Thom, of course, but he felt he understood him more often than not, and he liked his company. “Will you be seeing Alex tonight?” he asked mildly.

Thom looked up again. He stared at him briefly, his eyes bright, and then sighed. “I’m sure he’s already asleep. _I_ lost track of time. You and I always kept more compatible hours, didn’t we?”

Roger smiled, remembering Alex as a boy, dressed in blue and silver and half asleep on his feet in the middle of some midnight working that had required a second pair of hands. “We certainly did.”

“How many peregrine ships would you like?” asked Thom.

He considered that. “A small fleet.”

“That’s a tall order, but I’ll see what I can do.” He rose from his chair, stretched like a cat, and tucked the book away in the pocket of his robes. “Have a good night, then,” he said, smirking at Finn on his way out the door.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the music stopped abruptly. “I really dislike that man,” Finn remarked.

“I’m not surprised,” said Roger. “Thom’s somewhat of an acquired taste.”

Finn stretched out his fingers, wincing slightly; Roger felt the ache in them as a wave of secondhand exhaustion passed over him. “You’re tired,” he said. “Let’s go to bed.”

On their way to the bedroom, Finn asked, “What’s a peregrine ship?” If the detailed answer bored him, he hid it very well.

Later, as they drifted off to sleep, Roger saw painted blue ships behind his eyelids, speeding impossibly fast over the surface of a mirror-bright sea. They faded away into darkness as Finn breathed slowly beside him, lulling him with the music of sleep. There was a gentle falling sensation, not sharp enough to jolt him awake, and then he opened his eyes.

He found himself standing on a vast, grassy plateau under a sky roiling with clouds. The earth under his feet was churned and scarred, as if with the recent passage of an army, and beside him stood a man he had never seen before.

The first thing about his companion that Roger noticed was his clothing. The man wore the native costume of the Copper Isles, a wrapped coat and sarong in a riot of colors. The patterns seemed to shift as Roger looked him over, making him feel slightly disoriented. He wore rings of good-quality copper on all of his fingers and several of his toes, studded with rubies, sapphires, peridots, blue garnets, orange topaz. Roger eyed the stones with interest for a moment, before turning his attention to the rest of the man.

He stood about half a head shorter than Roger, lean and wiry, with the posture and balance of an expert swordsman. His skin was a little darker than Alex’s, his hair short and graying, his beard trim. He smiled, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief. As Roger gazed into them, his stomach lurched suddenly with a sensation of falling from a high place. For an instant, he remembered the stone platform at the top of Balor’s Needle, the rooftops far below.

“Hello, Roger.” The stranger’s voice was light, crisp, and precise, a very pleasant sort of voice. A Player’s voice, thought Roger, unease prickling over his skin. Though he couldn’t say how he knew, he felt certain the other man was a god. The man’s mind resisted him, dodged him like an eel, worse even than Alanna’s had been.

“Hello,” said Roger, frowning slightly. “Who are you?”

The god’s arched eyebrows lifted. “My dear fellow, you are being deliberately obtuse. You know a god when you see one. You may call me Kyprioth.”

The name wasn’t familiar, but Roger wasn’t well acquainted with the native gods of the Copper Isles. He gazed around warily; at least the landscape hadn’t changed. Hot and sticky with heavy clouds overhead, the day seemed to promise imminent rain. Under his tunic, his shirt clung to his back, heavy with sweat. In the distance, crows called to one another, as they did in Tortall, but the air smelled different somehow. “We’re in the Copper Isles, aren’t we?”

Kyprioth inclined his head, smiling again, as though he were a tutor and Roger a pupil who had just given him a clever answer. “In the highlands on the island of Kypriang. Tell me, have you ever been to Kypriang before?”

Roger shook his head irritably. There was something important he had heard from his agents in Rajmuat, something about a god in the Copper Isles. He tried to pin it down and the memory darted away, flitting just beyond his reach.

“What a shame,” said the god. “Allow me to give you a tour, then. Walk with me.”

He strolled away, his footsteps light on the churned earth. Curious, Roger followed him. Gradually the distant calls of the crows began to grow louder and harsher, until Roger realized they were listening to the echoes of war, the clashing of weapons and the screams of dying soldiers. “Where are we?”

“The Plain of Sorrows,” Kyprioth replied. “The site of the last great battle between the original inhabitants of these islands and the conquerors from the east.”

Roger turned to look at him, meeting his eyes again. In their depths, which rivaled the deepest reaches of the ocean or the vast blackness between the stars, he saw bloody reflections of that last battle. Transfixed, he watched men and women mowed down by steel and battle fire, their children sold into slavery, a conqueror crowned just as the sun reached the height of its power, days or even weeks compressed into an instant.

Kyprioth turned away and walked on, a bright figure under the gray sky. His knees buckling, Roger blinked away those images and staggered after him. Under their feet, the earth changed, becoming a trail through the lush greenery of a lowland rainforest. The battlefield sounds and clamor of the crows gave way to the chatter of parrots and the hooting of howler monkeys — menagerie sounds, he thought.

“Once there was peace in the Kyprish Isles,” said Kyprioth, climbing over a massive tree root that crossed their path. “In between civil wars, and war with Carthak and Barzun, there were always stretches of peace where art and culture flourished.”

Roger glanced up. The canopy overhead seemed as far from the ground as the top of Balor’s Needle, making him feel dizzy. He kept his eyes on the back of the god’s head, uncomfortably aware of how closely the trees crowded in on either side of them.

“Do you know what the trouble is with queens and kings?” Kyprioth asked him.

“I really couldn’t say.”

“On some level, they always believe that they’ll never be overthrown. No matter how many times the crown changes heads, they always think, _Well, it won’t happen to_ me.”

As they walked along, the forest that crowded in on either side had begun to change slowly, becoming more familiar terrain. The trees were shorter and less strange now, with more sunlight filtering down through their leaves. Hearing only ordinary birdsong, Roger looked around and realized they were walking through the Royal Forest outside Corus, in the middle of summer. “The Conté dynasty has ruled for over six hundred years now, hasn’t it?” Kyprioth remarked.

“Yes,” replied Roger, feeling uneasy. Though the god’s mind was opaque to him, the direction of his conversation seemed plain. “The gods have seen fit to favor my family with the crown. What of it?”

“In the south they plot against you,” said the god pleasantly, as the line of trees before them gave way to vast golden fields that Roger recognized. The grain lands in the center of Tortall, near the border with Fief Meron. In the distance, he could see the beginning of the Great Southern Desert, acres closer than it ought to have been. “In the north,” Kyprioth continued, “a Scanran warlord plots to take the throne, and then take northern Tortall.”

There was a flash of light, followed by another battlefield roar. When the light cleared, the fight raged before him. A company of Tortallan soldiers streamed past him, their warhorses’ hooves thundering over the grain fields, trampling the harvest. They were met by the force that poured out of the desert, a mixed group of Tortallans and Bazhir flying the old Barzunni flag. Men he knew, banners he recognized — and then the vision pulled back to reveal the scale of the battle, as other companies poured in from the north and the south, thousands upon thousands of people. The stench of blood grew overwhelming; overhead, light glinted off the steel feathers of circling Stormwings.

“Would you like to see the northern border?” asked Kyprioth conversationally, gazing out at the battle. “Your eldest son serves at a fort there, chafing at the bit they’ve put on him. He wants to join the real fighting, but there’s always a squad of soldiers guarding him.”

Roger turned back to him. “I never wanted this.”

“Didn’t you?” said Kyprioth, looking at him sidelong. “Your reign was born out of bloodshed — why shouldn’t it end in bloodshed?” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “How did you imagine it would end?”

Roger stared at him, a wave of fury rising in him. Being king was his birthright. It had been stolen from him when he was fifteen, but he had taken it back; it was his by right and eventually the gods had seen that. “This will _not_ be my legacy.”

“There are other paths,” Kyprioth told him, his eyes like dark mirrors. “Gods and seers glimpse possible futures only, not the way that things must be. It may be that none of what I’ve shown you will come to pass. Marry your younger sons to ladies from Scanra and the land that was once Barzun. Make peace with the nobility there. You can avoid war still.”

He vanished, and for a few minutes Roger stood alone on the churned battlefield, gazing out at his ruined grain lands, at the level plain stretching away toward the desert sands. Then he blinked, and found himself in darkness.

He sat up, his heart pounding. His bedroom door stood open ajar, letting in soft light from the lamp in the corridor. Beside him, Finn murmured something in his sleep.

“It’s all right,” said Roger, settling back against the pillows. He took a deep breath and released it slowly, repeating the process until he began to feel calm. “Just a bad dream, nothing more.”


End file.
